“What does this mean?” I asked.
“There must be some other quay to stop at nearer the town,” said Davies. “Let’s go ashore and get your letters.”
We had made a long and painful toilette that morning, and felt quite shy of one another as we sculled towards the pier, in much-creased blue suits, conventional collars, and brown boots. It was the first time for two years that I had seen Davies in anything approaching a respectable garb; but a fashionable watering-place, even in the dead season, exacts respect; and, besides, we had friends to visit.
We tied up the dinghy to an iron ladder, and on the pier found our inquisitor of the night before smoking in the doorway of a shed marked “Harbour Master”. After some civilities we inquired about the steamer. The answer was that it was Saturday, and she had, therefore, gone on to Juist. Did we want a good hotel? The “Vier Jahreszeiten” was still open, etc.
“Juist, by Jove!” said Davies, as we walked on. “Why are those three going to Juist?”
“I should have thought it was pretty clear. They’re on their way to Memmert.”
Davies agreed, and we both looked longingly westward at a straw-coloured streak on the sea.
“Is it some meeting, do you think?” said Davies.
“Looks like it. We shall probably find the Kormoran here, wind-bound.”
And find her we did soon after, the outermost of the stack of galliots, on the farther side of the harbour. Two men, whose faces we took a good look at, were sitting on her hatch, mending a sail.