“Ah, Mr Leslie,” said Van Heldre, looking at the new-comer searchingly.
“Good morning,” was the reply, “or I should say bad morning. There’ll be some mischief after this.”
Van Heldre nodded, for conversation was painful, and passed on.
“Going up yonder?” shouted Leslie.
There was another nod, and under the circumstances, not pausing to ask permission, Leslie followed the old merchant, climbing the rough stone steps, and holding on tightly by the rail.
“Best look out, master,” shouted one of the group. “Soon as you get atop roosh acrost and kneel down behind the old parry-putt.”
It was a difficult climb and full of risk, for as they went higher they were more exposed, till as they reached the rough top which formed a platform, the wind seemed to rush at them as interlopers which it strove to sweep off and out to sea.
Van Heldre stood, glass in hand, holding on by a block of granite, his mackintosh tightly pressed to his figure in front, and filling out behind till it had a balloon-like aspect that seemed grotesque.
“I dare say I look as bad,” Leslie muttered, as, taking the rough fisherman’s advice, he bent down and crept under the shelter of the ancient parapet, a dwarf breastwork, with traces of the old crude bastions just visible, and here, to some extent, he was screened from the violence of the wind, and signed to Van Heldre to join him.
Leslie placed his hands to his mouth, and shouted through them,