But he knew quite well what it was.  It was a cheque for twenty-five pounds.  What he did not know was that, with the ten pounds paid in cash earlier in the day, it represented a very large part indeed of such of Denry’s savings as had survived his engagement to Ruth Earp.  Cregeen took a pen as though it had been a match-end and wrote a receipt.  Then, after finding a stamp in a pocket of his waistcoat under his jersey, he put it in his mouth and lost it there for a long time.  Finally Denry got the receipt, certifying that he was the owner of the lifeboat formerly known as Llandudno, but momentarily without a name, together with all her gear and sails.

“Are ye going to live in her?” the rather curt John inquired.

“Not in her.  On her,” said Denry.

And he went out on to the sand and shingle, leaving John and Cregeen to complete the sale to Cregeen of the Fleetwing, a small cutter specially designed to take twelve persons forth for “a pleasant sail in the bay.”  If Cregeen had not had a fancy for the Fleetwing and a perfect lack of the money to buy her, Denry might never have been able to induce him to sell the lifeboat.

Under another portion of the pier Denry met a sailor with a long white beard, the aged Simeon, who had been one of the crew that rescued the Hjalmar, but whom his colleagues appeared to regard rather as an ornament than as a motive force.

“It’s all right,” said Demo.

And Simeon, in silence, nodded his head slowly several times.

“I shall give you thirty shilling for the week,” said Denry.

And that venerable head oscillated again in the moon-lit gloom and rocked gradually to a stand-still.

Presently the head said, in shrill, slow tones: 

“I’ve seen three o’ them Norwegian chaps.  Two of ’em can no more speak English than a babe unborn; no, nor understand what ye say to ’em, though I fair bawled in their ear-holes.”

“So much the better,” said Denry.

“I showed ’em that sovereign,” said the bearded head, wagging again.

“Well,” said Denry, “you won’t forget.  Six o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“Ye’d better say five,” the head suggested.  “Quieter like.”

“Five, then,” Denry agreed.

And he departed to St Asaph’s Road burdened with a tremendous thought.

The thought was: 

“I’ve gone and done it this time!”

Now that the transaction was accomplished and could not be undone, he admitted to himself that he had never been more mad.  He could scarcely comprehend what had led him to do that which he had done.  But he obscurely imagined that his caprice for the possession of sea-going craft must somehow be the result of his singular adventure with the pantechnicon in the canal at Bursley.  He was so preoccupied with material interests as to be capable of forgetting, for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, that in all