"Why, there's not a breath of wind," Vibart contradicted.
"Lovely breeze about half a mile out, sir. Better have a couple of hours' nice sail, sir."
"It would be rather jolly," Vibart suggested with a glance at Jasmine. She, her eyes brimming with memories of the South, could not gainsay him.
"The whiting's biting something lovely to-night, sir," tempted the hoarse voice again. "There's a party just come in, sir, took 'em by the dozen in half an hour."
A tempting exit to the sands was visible close to where they were standing, the tall iron turnstile of which was like a gate to the moon. Vibart hurried through.
"And now you must come," he pointed out, "because I can't get back."
"That's right, lady," breathed the voice. "He can't get back."
A maroon crashed overhead, and before the echoes had died away Jasmine was on the free side of the turnstile. The voice, which belonged to a burly longshoreman, led the way seaward, and when they were clear of the crowd on the beach shouted:
"Mermaid, ahoy! Jonas Pretty is my own name," he added.
Some of the crew flopped toward them like walruses and helped them along planks over the ribbed and rippling sands to the Mermaid's dinghy; and presently they were aboard with the crew grunting over the oars to catch the legendary breeze half a mile off shore.