The Visit to the Opposite Shore
Tom Gale, with the comfortable sensation of the replenishment of his
inner man with a double portion of his favourite beverage, went back
on board the _Lucy_ and resumed his attitude of leaning over the
bulwarks and gazing upon the estuary. Only, this time, he was aft of
the schooner instead of forward.
The tide had gone down rapidly, and great patches of slimy black mud
were showing on either side of the central current. Opposite, just
southward of the small landing-stage where the boat was moored, a
stony patch ran out into the estuary, banking up the water on the
northern side. This made it possible, except at extreme low water, to
cross in a small boat from shore to shore without running on the mud.
As Tom Gale puffed at his short pipe he was attracted by a noise from
the yacht. Looking towards it, he observed that Templeton was hauling
the dinghy alongside.
“Goin’ ashore,” murmured Tom.
Templeton got into the dinghy, cast her off, took the oars, and began
rowing across the estuary. To do this he had to head the boat
diagonally upstream and to pull with all his might athwart the
current. Slowly he crossed over, Tom Gale grunting approval, till he
reached the little pool of comparatively calm water formed by the
stony patch. Here he got out, took the anchor, hitched it round a big
stone, and shoved off the boat to the full length of her painter. Then
he walked briskly up the shore and disappeared into the wood—towards
the house.
The young man watching from the window of the “Mariner’s Arms” had
seen Templeton cross over.
He put on his hat, came downstairs and strolled out on the quay. Then
he stepped aboard the _Lucy_, and began to talk to Tom Gale.
Presently he asked, nonchalantly:
“Who lives in that house beyond the trees yonder?” pointing to the
opposite shore.
Tom Gale, who had been up and down the estuary scores of times, and
was a confirmed gossip, answered readily:
“Over there? Oh, he’s a London chap. Name o’ Moss—Isaac Moss. He’s a
Jew, so they say.”
“Ont-of-the-way place, eh?”
“He only comes down for week-ends. That’s his craft—yonder,” and he
nodded towards one of the little yachts lying near the newcomer. “Has
to keep her over this side, but rows across when he wants her. She’s
stowed for the winter now, I reckon. Lord, _he_ can’t sail her, sir.
Has a man to do it for him.”
“What is he?”
“Dunno. Something up in London. Reg’lar Jew, sir. Come walkin’ out
from Frattenbury one Saturday I was here—his motor had gone wrong, and
couldn’t run in to fetch him. Asked me to pull him across when a
smartish tide was runnin’, and give me thruppence for it. Look—that’s
him,” and he pointed to the other side, where two men were coming out
of the wood to the shore. “T’other’s the skipper comin’ back I
reckon.”
Templeton, for it was he, drew the dinghy ashore, stepped into her,
and began to row across. The other, a small man, stood on the shore,
apparently still talking to him.
The young man, who had been sitting on the bulwarks, rose, left the
schooner, and walked back to the inn. From the window he again took up
his watch. This time he was successful. Templeton, having boarded his
yacht for a few minutes, pulled himself ashore, dragged the dinghy a
little way out of the water and made her painter fast to a stump of
wood. Then he began walking briskly over the field path that led to
Frattenbury.
By this time it was well on in the afternoon. The young man came down,
had his tea, and then strolled out. For some time he stood at the
entrance to the quay looking at the yacht. The latter was only about
twenty yards from the shore, and he could clearly make out the name on
her bows—the _Firefly_.
Later on Tom Gale found a little company assembled in the bar parlour,
and spent a pleasant, and somewhat beery, evening. At ten o’clock Mrs.
Yates gently but firmly turned them all out. The little group stood
talking for a few minutes in the road, and then separated. The night
was very dark, but Tom Gale was accustomed to dark nights at sea.
Mechanically observant, he could make out the dim shape of the dinghy,
already half afloat on the flowing tide, while the outline of the
yacht, riding at anchor, was just discernible. There were no lights
showing on it.
“Skipper ain’t come back yet; he’ll have a dark, lonesome kind o’ walk
from Frattenbury,” he said to himself as he made his way along the
quay. Arrived on board the _Lucy_, he dived into the forecastle,
lighted a candle, closed the hatch—he liked fuggy surroundings—removed
his jacket, guernsey and trousers, rolled into his bunk, blew out the
light, and in a few minutes was sleeping the heavy sleep of the
saturated.
The tide rippled up the estuary. The lights in the “Mariner’s Arms”
and the cluster of cottages went out. Marsh Quay and its surroundings
were still and quiet in the calm autumn night.