But with George at his side it was impossible to be anything but happy.  After lunch they sallied out, and it would have been hard to choose the gayest of the three.  Sir Harry’s radiant good-temper seemed to gild the streets.  He took the boys up to the Hoe and pointed out the war-ships; he whisked them into the Camera Obscura; thence to the Citadel, where they watched a squad of recruits at drill; thence to the Barbican, where the trawling-fleet lay packed like herring, and the shops were full of rope and oilskin suits and marine instruments, and dirty children rolled about the roadway between the legs of seabooted fishermen; and so up to the town again, where he lingered in the most obliging manner while the boys stared into the fishing-tackle shops and toy shops.  On the way he led them up a narrow passage and into a curious room, where fifteen or twenty men were drinking, and talking at the top of their voices.  The most of them seemed to know Sir Harry well and greeted him with an odd mixture of respect and familiarity.  Their talk was full of mysterious names and expressions, and Taffy thought at first they must be Freemasons.  “The Moor point-to-point was a walk-over for the Milkman; Lapidary was scratched, which left it a soft thing, unless Sir Harry fancied a fox-catcher like Nursery Governess, in which case Billy behind the bar would do as much business as he liked at six-to-one.”  After a while Taffy discovered they were talking about horses, and wondered why they should meet to discuss horses in a dingy room up a back yard.  “Youngster of yours is growin’, Surrarry,” said a red-faced man.  “Who’s his stable companion?” Taffy was introduced, and to his embarrassment Sir Harry began to relate his ridiculous mistake at lunch.  The men roared with laughter.

He made another, quite as ridiculous, at the pastry-cook’s where Sir Harry ordered tea.  “What’ll you take with it?  Call for what you like, only don’t poison yourselves.”  Taffy referring his gaze from the buns and confections on the counter to the card in his hands, which was inscribed with words in unknown tongues, made a bold plunge and announced that he would take a “marasheno.”

This tickled Sir Harry mightily.  He ordered the waitress with a wink to “bring the young gentleman a marasheno”; and Taffy, who had expected something in the shape of a macaroon, was confronted with a tiny glass of a pale liquor, which, when tasted, in the most surprising manner put sunshine into his stomach and brought tears into his eyes.  But under Sir Harry’s quizzical gaze he swallowed it down bravely, and sat gasping and blinking.