He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. Capes went first, finding footholds and, where the drops in the strataedges came like long, awkward steps, placing Ann Veronica’s feet. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. Its walled heaved with black mildew and sea-salt. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress. She swallowed hard. It is a very small affair, after all, and you can pay me back if you will. It was so difficult to put precisely.
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