"Don't blame the crew," said Archie nobly, "he did his best. He sat up all night whistling."

 

"ARE we moving?" asked Myra, from a horizontal position on the shady side of the mainsail.

 

"We are not," I said, from a similar position on the sunny side.

"Let's get out."

Simpson took off his yachting cap and fanned himself with a nautical¹ almanac. "How far are we from anywhere?" he asked cheerfully.

 

"Miles," said Archie. "To be more accurate, we are five miles from a public-house, six from a church, four from a post-office, and three from the spacious² walled-in kitchen-garden and tennis-court. On the other hand, we are quite close to the sea."

 

"You will never see your friends again, Simpson. They will miss you … at first … perhaps; but they will soon forget. The circulation of the papers that you wrote for will go up, the brindled³ bull-pup will be fed by another and a smaller hand, but otherwise all will be as it was before."

 

My voice choked, and at the same moment something whizzed past me into the sea.

 

"Yachting cap overboard! Help!" cried Myra.

 

"You aren't in The Spectator office now, Simpson," said Archie severely⁴, as he fished with the boat-hook. "There is a time for ballyragging. By the way, I suppose you do want it back again?"

 

"It's my fault," I confessed remorsefully⁵; "I told him yesterday I didn't like it."

 

"Myra and I do like it, Mr Simpson. Please save it, Archie."

 

Archie let it drip from the end of the boat-hook for a minute, and then brought it in.

 

"Morning, Sir Thomas," I said,

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