I picked it up—­a thin quarto bound in black morocco, and rather the worse for wear.  On its top side it bore the following inscription in dingy gilt letters:—­

JOB’S HOTEL, PENLEVEN,

VISITORS’ BOOK.

J. JOB, Proprietor.

Standing there beneath the skylight I turned its pages over, wondering vaguely how the visitors’ book of a small provincial hotel had found its way into that drawer.  It contained the usual assortment of conventional praise and vulgar jocosity:—­

Mr. and the Hon. Mrs. Smith of Huddersfield,
cannot speak too highly of Mrs. Job’s ham and
eggs.—­September 15, 1881.

     Arrived wet through after a 15-mile tramp
      along the coast; but thanks to Mr. and Mrs.
      Job were soon steaming over a comfortable
      fire.—­John and Annie Watson, March, 1882.

Note appended by a humorist: 

     Then you sat on the hob, I suppose.

There was the politely patronising entry: 

     Being accustomed to Wolverhampton, I am
      greatly pleased with this coast.—­F.  B. W.

The poetical effusion: 

     Majestic spot!  Say, doth the sun in heaven
      Behold aught to equal thee, wave-washed
      Penleven? etc.

Lighter verse: 

     Here I came to take my ease,
      Agreeably disappointed to find no fl—­
      Mrs. Job, your bread and butter
      Is quite too utterly, utterly utter!

          J.  Harper, June 3rd, 1883.

The contemplative man’s ejaculation: 

    It is impossible, on viewing these Cyclopean cliffs,
     to repress the thought, How great is Nature,
     how little Man!
    (A note:  So it is, old chap! and a reproof
     in another hand:  Shut up! can’t you see
     he’s suffering?)

The last entry was a brief one: 

    J.  MacGuire, Liverpool.  September 2nd, 1886.

Twilight forced me to close the book and put it back in its place.  As I did so, I glanced up involuntarily towards the skylight, as if I half expected to find a pair of eyes staring down on me.  Yet the book contained nothing but these mere trivialities.  Whatever my apprehension, I was (as “J.  Harper” would have said) “agreeably disappointed.”  I climbed on deck again, relocked the hatch, replaced the tarpaulins, jumped into the boat and rowed homewards.  Though the tide favoured me, it was dark before I reached Mr. Dewy’s quay-door.  Having, with some difficulty, found the frape, I made the boat fast.  I groped my way across his back premises and out into the gaslit street; and so to the Ship Inn, a fair dinner, and a sound night’s sleep.

At ten o’clock next morning I called on Messrs. Dewy and Moss.  Again Mr. Dewy received me, and again he apologised for the absence of his partner, who had caught an early train to attend a wrestling match at the far end of the county.  Mr. Dewy showed me the sails, gear, cushions, etc., of the Siren—­everything in surprising condition.  I told him that I meant business, and added—­