With this Horace had agreed heartily, for his father’s appearance on occasions when he had gone out with him in the Surf had struck him as being wholly incongruous with the surroundings.
At half-past eight they went down to the steps, two porters carrying the luggage under the watchful eye of Zaimes. As they were seen, the smart gig with its six rowers, which was lying a short distance off, rowed in to the steps. Tarleton was steering. He stepped out to hand Mr. Beveridge into the boat.
“This is Mr. Tarleton, father, our second lieutenant.”
“I am glad to meet you, sir,” Mr. Beveridge said, shaking hands with the young officer. “I hope that we shall have a pleasant cruise together.”
“I feel sure we shall, sir. If one couldn’t be comfortable on board the Creole, one couldn’t be comfortable anywhere.”
Tarleton took his seat in the centre to steer, with Mr. Beveridge and Horace on either side of him, Zaimes and the luggage were placed in the bow. The bowman pushed the boat off with the boat-hook. The oars, which had been tossed in man-of-war fashion, fell with a splash into the water, and then with a long steady stroke the gig darted away from the steps.
“This is certainly very pleasant,” Mr. Beveridge said as they threaded through the anchored craft and made their way seaward. “I begin to wish I had taken up yachting twenty years back.”
“Well, it is not too late, father. When we have done with Greece, you can go in for amusement if you like.”
“I should never find time, Horace.”