He interrupted me by an aggressive —

“Would truth be any good to you?”

“I shouldn’t like to say,” I answered, cautiously.  “It’s said that truth is stranger than fiction.”

“Who says that?” he mouthed.

“Oh!  Nobody in particular.”

I turned to the window; for the contemptuous beggar was oppressive to look at, with his immovable arm on the table.  I suppose my unceremonious manner provoked him to a comparatively long speech.

“Did you ever see such a silly lot of rocks?  Like plums in a slice of cold pudding.”

I was looking at them—­an acre or more of black dots scattered on the steel-grey shades of the level sea, under the uniform gossamer grey mist with a formless brighter patch in one place—­the veiled whiteness of the cliff coming through, like a diffused, mysterious radiance.  It was a delicate and wonderful picture, something expressive, suggestive, and desolate, a symphony in grey and black--a Whistler.  But the next thing said by the voice behind me made me turn round.  It growled out contempt for all associated notions of roaring seas with concise energy, then went on —

“I—­no such foolishness—­looking at the rocks out there—­more likely call to mind an office—­I used to look in sometimes at one time—­office in London—­one of them small streets behind Cannon Street Station. . . "

He was very deliberate; not jerky, only fragmentary; at times profane.

“That’s a rather remote connection,” I observed, approaching him.

“Connection?  To Hades with your connections.  It was an accident.”

“Still,” I said, “an accident has its backward and forward connections, which, if they could be set forth—­”

Without moving he seemed to lend an attentive ear.

“Aye!  Set forth.  That’s perhaps what you could do.  Couldn’t you now?  There’s no sea life in this connection.  But you can put it in out of your head—­if you like.”

“Yes.  I could, if necessary,” I said.  “Sometimes it pays to put in a lot out of one’s head, and sometimes it doesn’t.  I mean that the story isn’t worth it.  Everything’s in that.”

It amused me to talk to him like this.  He reflected audibly that he guessed story-writers were out after money like the rest of the world which had to live by its wits:  and that it was extraordinary how far people who were out after money would go. . .  Some of them.

Then he made a sally against sea life.  Silly sort of life, he called it.  No opportunities, no experience, no variety, nothing.  Some fine men came out of it—­he admitted—­but no more chance in the world if put to it than fly.  Kids.  So Captain Harry Dunbar.  Good sailor.  Great name as a skipper.  Big man; short side-whiskers going grey, fine face, loud voice.  A good fellow, but no more up to people’s tricks than a baby.

“That’s the captain of the Sagamore you’re talking about,” I said, confidently.