They parted at the station, roused by the smell of salt to bestow a more legitimate title on the day’s restorative beginning.  Down the hill, along by the shops, and Skepsey, in sight of Miss Nesta’s terrace, considered it still an early hour for a visitor; so, to have the sea about him, he paid pier-money, and hurried against the briny wings of a South-wester; green waves, curls of foam, flecks of silver, under low-flying grey-dark cloud-curtains shaken to a rift, where at one shot the sun had a line of Nereids nodding, laughing, sparkling to him.  Skepsey enjoyed it, at the back of thoughts military and naval.  Visible sea, this girdle of Britain, inspired him to exultations in reverence.  He wished Mr. Durance could behold it now and have such a breastful.  He was wishing he knew a song of Britain and sea, rather fancying Mr. Durance to be in some way a bar to patriotic poetical recollection, when he saw his Captain Dartrey mounting steps out of an iron anatomy of the pier, and looking like a razor off a strap.

‘Why, sir!’ cried Skepsey.

‘Just a plunge and a dozen strokes,’ Dartrey said; ’and you’ll come to my hotel and give me ten minutes of the “recreation”; and if you don’t come willingly, I shall insult your country.’

‘Ah!  I wish Mr. Durance were here,’ Skepsey rejoined.

’It would upset his bumboat of epigrams.  He rises at ten o’clock to a queasy breakfast by candlelight, and proceeds to composition.  His picture of the country is a portrait of himself by the artist.’

’But, sir, Captain Dartrey, you don’t think as Mr. Durance does of England!’

’There are lots to flatter her, Skepsey!  A drilling can’t do her harm.  You’re down to see Miss Nesta.  Ladies don’t receive quite so early.  And have you breakfasted?  Come on with me quick.’  Dartrey led him on, saying:  ’You have an eye at my stick.  It was a legacy to me, by word of mouth, from a seaman of a ship I sailed in, who thought I had done him a service; and he died after all.  He fell overboard drunk.  He perished of the villain stuff.  One of his messmates handed me the stick in Cape Town, sworn to deliver it.  A good knot to grasp; and it ’s flexible and strong; stick or rattan, whichever you please; it gives point or caresses the shoulder; there’s no break in it, whack as you may.  They call it a Demerara supple-jack.  I’ll leave it to you.’

Skepsey declared his intention to be the first to depart.  He tried the temper of the stick, bent it a bit, and admired the prompt straightening.

‘It would give a good blow, sir.’

‘Does its business without braining.’