“Then what do you call it?” said the stranger.
“Call it, sir? Well, we calls it Danmouth, or, mostly, Dan’orth, because you see it’s shorter, and more like one word.”
“Oh, yes, I know the name; but what do you call it if it isn’t a seaside place?”
“I calls it a port, sir, and as good a little port as there is anywheres about this coast. Dinton and Bartoe and Minxton’s seaside places, with lots of visitors and bathing machines, and bands and Punch and Judies. Lodgings, eh? Let me see. Lodgings for a gentleman? What do you say to the Harbour Inn? They’ve got as good a drop of beer there as a man could wish to drink.”
“No, no, I don’t want to be at a public house. I’m here for a fortnight’s fishing, and I want nice, comfortable apartments.”
“And you want comfortable apartments?” said Brime respectfully, as he rubbed his sunburned face with the stem of his pipe. “Fishing, eh? You mean pottering about with a rod and line; not going with a boat and nets?”
“Quite right.”
“I’ve got it,” said the gardener. “Mrs Sarson; she lets lodgings. Stop a moment. I’ll take you on to the museum.”
“Museum! Hang it all, man, I’m not a specimen.”
Brime laughed for the first time for a month.