From single yarn that a child could break, to hawsers strong enough to hold a battleship, Bridport meets every need.  Her twines and cords and nets are famous the world over; her ropes, cables, cablets and canvas rigged the fleet that scattered the Spanish Armada.

The broad streets with deep, unusual side-walks are a sign of Bridport’s past, for they tell of the days when men and women span yarn before their doors, and rope-walks ran their amber and silver threads of hemp and flax along the pavements.  But steel and steam have taken the place of the hand-spinners, though their industry has left its sign-manual upon the township.  For the great, open side-walks make for distinction and spaciousness, and there shall be found in all Dorset, no brighter, cheerfuller place than this.  Bridport’s very workhouse, south-facing and bowered in green, blinks half a hundred windows amiably at the noonday sun and helps to soften the life-failure of those who dwell therein.  Off Barrack Street it stands, and at the time of the terror, when Napoleon threatened, soldiers hived here and gave the way its name.

Not far from the workhouse two inns face each other in Barrack Street—­’The Tiger’ upon one side of the way, ‘The Seven Stars’ upon the other; and at the moment when Henry Ironsyde’s dust was reaching the bottom of his grave at Bridetown, a young man of somewhat inane countenance, clad in garments that displayed devotion to sport and indifference to taste, entered ‘The Tiger’s’ private bar.

Behind the counter stood Richard Gurd, a middle-aged, broad-shouldered publican with a large and clean-shaven face, heavy-jaw, rather sulky eyes and mighty hands.

“The usual,” said the visitor.  “Ray been here?”

Mr. Gurd shook his head.

“No, Mr. Ned—­nor likely to.  They’re burying his father this morning.”

The publican poured out a glass of cherry brandy as he spoke and Mr. Neddy Motyer rolled a cigarette.

“Ray ain’t going,” said the customer.

“Not going to his father’s funeral!”

“For a very good reason, too; he’s cut off with a shilling.”

“Dear, dear,” said Mr. Gurd.  “That’s bad news, though perhaps not much of a surprise to Mr. Raymond.”

“It’s a devil of a lesson to the rising generation,” declared the youth.  “To think our own fathers can do such blackguard things, just because they don’t happen to like our way of life.  What would become of England if every man was made in the pattern of his father?  Don’t education and all that count?  If my father was to do such a thing—­but he won’t; he’s too fond of the open air and sport and that.”

“Young men don’t study their fathers enough in this generation, however,” argued the innkeeper, “nor yet do young women study their mothers enough.”

“We’ve got to go out in the world and play our parts,” declared Neddy.  “’Tis for them to study us—­not us them.  You must have progress.  The thing for parents to do is to know they’re back numbers and act according.”