The climb had been a stiff one. The day was very hot, and, rather
purple about the face and breathing heavily, the sailor relapsed on the
springy, scented turf close to the cliff's edge and gazed pensively at
the vista of shimmering sea spread out before him.
He was a massive, rotund, bull-necked individual, with a face the
colour of a ripe tomato, and wore on the sleeves of his jumper two red
good conduct badges and the single gun and star of an able seaman,
seaman gunner, of His Majesty's Navy. His name was Smith, I
discovered, and he was home on seven days' leave. I had met him
halfway up the hill ten minutes before, toiling laboriously to the
summit like an asthmatic cart-horse, and with his crimson face shining
and beady with perspiration. A mutual glance and a casual remark about
the excessive heat had led to conversation.
He now sat on the turf mopping his heated countenance with a mottled
blue and white handkerchief; but a few minutes later, having recovered
himself sufficiently to smoke, produced a pipe, tobacco box, and
matches from the interior of his cap.
"You 'aint got a fill o' 'bacca abart you, I suppose, sir?" he queried,
exploring the inner recesses of his brass tobacco box with a horny
forefinger.
"I'm afraid it's rather weaker stuff than you're used to," I remarked
deprecatingly, handing my pouch across.
"Yus," he agreed, examining its contents and proceeding to fill his
pipe. "It do look a bit like 'ay, don't it? 'Owever, seein' as 'ow I
carn't git no more I'm werry much obliged, sir, I'm sure."
"It's expensive hay," I said weakly, as he handed my property back and
lit his pipe. "It costs well over ten shillings a pound."
The ungrateful old sinner puffed out a cloud of smoke. "'Arf a
Bradbury[1]!" he grunted unsympathetically. "You're jokin', sir."