Beds were secured at the inn; after which came the introduction to Mrs. Shale, the exhibition of Susan Shale’s bar of amber, the dish of fresh-fried whiting, the steak pudding, a grog, tobacco, rest at the inn, and a rousing bang at the sleepers’ doors when the unwonted supper in them withheld an answer to the intimating knock.  Young Matthew Shale, who had slept on board the Susan, conducted them to her boat.  His glance was much drawn to the very white duck trousers Weyburn had put on, for a souvenir of the approbation they had won at Marlow.  They were on, and so it was of no use for young Matthew to say they were likely to bear away a token from the Susan.  She was one among the damsels of colour, and free of her tokens, especially to the spotless.

How it occurred, nobody saw; though everybody saw how naturally it must occur for the white ducks to ‘have it in the eye’ by the time they had been on board a quarter of an hour.  Weyburn got some fun out of them, for a counterbalance to a twitch of sentimental regret scarcely decipherable, as that the last view of him should bear a likeness of Browny’s recollection of her first.

A glorious morning of flushed open sky and sun on sea chased all small thoughts out of it.  The breeze was from the west, and the Susan, lightly laden, took the heave of smooth rollers with a flowing current-curtsey in the motion of her speed.  Fore-sail and aft were at their gentle strain; her shadow rippled fragmentarily along to the silver rivulet and boat of her wake.  Straight she flew to the ball of fire now at spring above the waters, and raining red gold on the line of her bows.  By comparison she was an ugly yawl, and as the creature of wind and wave beautiful.

They passed an English defensive fort, and spared its walls, in obedience to Matthew Shale’s good counsel that they should forbear from sneezing.  Little Collett pointed to the roof of his mother’s house twenty paces rearward of a belt of tamarisks, green amid the hollowed yellows of shorebanks yet in shade, crumbling to the sands.  Weyburn was attracted by a diminutive white tent, of sentry-box shape, evidently a bather’s, quite as evidently a fair bather’s.  He would have to walk on some way for his dip.  He remarked to little Collett that ladies going into the water half-dressed never have more than half a bath.  His arms and legs flung out contempt of that style of bathing, exactly in old Matey’s well-remembered way.  Half a mile off shore, the Susan was put about to flap her sails, and her boat rocked with the passengers.  Turning from a final cheer to friendly Matthew, Weyburn at the rudder espied one of those unenfranchised ladies in marine uniform issuing through the tent-slit.  She stepped firmly, as into her element.  A plain look at her, and a curious look, and an intent look fixed her fast, and ran the shock on his heart before he knew of a guess.  She waded, she dipped; a head across the breast of the waters was observed: