The tide was coming in; it was a fine night, and Jem could see every ripple upon the smiling, playful ocean.
There, far out now, were the fishing boats, looking like magnified walnut shells as they rose and fell on the light swell.
He waited until the boats were lost to sight, then climbed up the beach again.
As he passed through the street he peeped into the "Blue Lion".
There was no one in the bar, and he was about to peep in when he saw a light pierce the chink in the cellar flap.
He stooped and knelt down, and was rewarded, not with a sight of Polly or Martha, but of the little old man, peering on his knees into what seemed to Jem like the mouth of a well.
"Hello," he thought, "here's the old chap playing larks with old Grunty-grump's beer," and he was about to run into the bar with the information.
But before he could get up from his knees another figure, no other than Martha Pettingall, entered the cellar, and, far from expressing alarm or indignation at the old man's presence, commenced talking with him in a low, confidential tone.
Jem would have given one of his large eyes to have heard that conversation, or for a peep into that hole over which it was held.