Father and son got into the launch and the man after them:  the launch began to snort, and off it went at a racing speed from the pier towards midchannel.  Mr. Prohack, who said not a word, perceived a string of vessels of various sizes which he judged to be private yachts, though he had no experience whatever of yachts.  Some of them flew bunting and some of them didn’t; but they all without exception appeared, as Mr. Prohack would have expected, to be the very symbols of complicated elegance and luxury, shining and glittering buoyantly there on the brilliant blue water under the summer sun.  The launch was rushing headlong through its own white surge towards the largest of these majestic toys.  As it approached the string Mr. Prohack saw that all the yachts were much larger than he imagined, and that the largest was enormous.  The launch flicked itself round the stern of that yacht, upon which Mr. Prohack read the word “Northwind” in gold, and halted bobbing at a staircase whose rails were white ropes, slung against a dark blue wall; the wall was the side of the yacht.  Mr. Prohack climbed out of the bobbing launch, and the staircase had the solidity under his feet of masonry on earth.  High up, glancing over the wall, was a capped face.

“How d’ye do, skipper,” called Charlie, and when he had got his parent on to the deck, he said:  “Skipper, this is my father.  Dad—­Captain Crowley.”

Mr. Prohack shook hands with a short, stoutish nervous man with an honest, grim, marine face.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, sir.  Glad you’ve come at last, sir.”

“Good!”

Charlie turned away from the captain to his father.  Mr. Prohack saw a man hauling a three-cornered flag up the chief of the three masts which the ship possessed, and another man hauling a large oblong flag up a pole at the stern.

“What is the significance of this flag-raising?” asked Mr. Prohack.

“The significance is that the owner has come aboard,” Charlie replied, not wholly without self-consciousness.  “Come on.  Have a look at her.  Come on, skipper.  Do the honours.  She used to be a Mediterranean trader.  The former owner turned her into a yacht.  He says she cost him a hundred thousand by the time she was finished.  I can believe it.”

Mr. Prohack also believed it, easily; he believed it more and more easily as he was trotted from deck to deck and from bedroom to bedroom, and sitting-room to sitting-room, and library to smoking-room, and music-room to lounge, and especially from bathroom to bathroom.  In no land habitation had Mr. Prohack seen so many, or such marmoreal, or such luxurious bathrooms.  What particularly astonished Mr. Prohack was the exceeding and minute finish of everything, and what astonished him even more than the finish was the cleanliness of everything.

“Dirty place to be in, sir, Southampton,” grinned the skipper.  “We do the best we can.”