I
The anchor was trailing down the shingle-bank after them.
The Gentleman had picked it up, and came walking down the slope, leaning back a little as he came.
He was smiling the brave man's wistful smile.
He had lost and he knew it.
Blob snatched a musket and aimed at his waistcoat.
The Parson struck up the barrel.
"Your friends are safe, sir," he called, hoarse and quiet. "I've burnt the despatches."
"They don't deserve to be, but thank you all the same," replied the other as quiet.
He let the anchor go. It fell with a splash into the water.
"I salute a gallant soldier, a gallant sailor, and my friend Monsieur Moon-calf!" he said, and stood, the water to his ankles, and hilt to his lips.