“You’re a writer, aren’t you?”

“A sort of one,” I said.

“If by any chance,” he said suddenly, “you’re looking for a job, I could put something in your way.  Walk down to the beach with me, and I’ll tell you; my boat’s at anchor, smartest little craft in these parts.”

It was very hot, and I had no desire whatever to go down to the beach—­I went, all the same.  We had not gone far when John Ford and Dan Treffry came into the lane.  Our friend seemed a little disconcerted, but soon recovered himself.  We met in the middle of the lane, where there was hardly room to pass.  John Ford, who looked very haughty, put on his pince-nez and stared at Pearse.

“Good-day!” said Pearse; “fine weather!  I’ve been up to ask Pasiance to come for a sail.  Wednesday we thought, weather permitting; this gentleman’s coming.  Perhaps you’ll come too, Mr. Treffry.  You’ve never seen my place.  I’ll give you lunch, and show you my father.  He’s worth a couple of hours’ sail any day.”  It was said in such an odd way that one couldn’t resent his impudence.  John Ford was seized with a fit of wheezing, and seemed on the eve of an explosion; he glanced at me, and checked himself.

“You’re very good,” he said icily; “my granddaughter has other things to do.  You, gentlemen, will please yourselves”; and, with a very slight bow, he went stumping on to the house.  Dan looked at me, and I looked at him.

“You’ll come?” said Pearse, rather wistfully.  Dan stammered:  “Thank you, Mr. Pearse; I’m a better man on a horse than in a boat, but—­thank you.”  Cornered in this way, he’s a shy, soft-hearted being.  Pearse smiled his thanks.  “Wednesday, then, at ten o’clock; you shan’t regret it.”

“Pertinacious beggar!” I heard Dan mutter in his beard; and found myself marching down the lane again by Pearse’s side.  I asked him what he was good enough to mean by saying I was coming, without having asked me.  He answered, unabashed: 

“You see, I’m not friends with the old man; but I knew he’d not be impolite to you, so I took the liberty.”

He has certainly a knack of turning one’s anger to curiosity.  We were down in the combe now; the tide was running out, and the sand all little, wet, shining ridges.  About a quarter of a mile out lay a cutter, with her tan sail half down, swinging to the swell.  The sunlight was making the pink cliffs glow in the most wonderful way; and shifting in bright patches over the sea like moving shoals of goldfish.  Pearse perched himself on his dinghy, and looked out under his hand.  He seemed lost in admiration.

“If we could only net some of those spangles,” he said, “an’ make gold of ’em!  No more work then.”

“It’s a big job I’ve got on,” he said presently; “I’ll tell you about it on Wednesday.  I want a journalist.”

“But I don’t write for the papers,” I said; “I do other sort of work.  My game is archaeology.”