“If you come a bit farther this way, sir, there’s a capital view of the house.”
Pratt followed the man; and there, at about half a mile distance, on the slope of a steep hill, was the rugged, granite-built seat—Penreife—half ancient, half modern; full of buttresses, gables, awkward chimney-stacks, and windows of all shapes, with the ivy clustering over it greenly, and a general look of picturesque comfort that no trimly-built piece of architecture could display. The house stood at the end of one of the steep valleys running up from the sea, which shone in the autumn sun about another half-mile farther, with grey cottages clustering on the cliff, and a little granite-built harbour, sheltering some half a dozen duck-shaped luggers and a couple of yachts.
“Ah,” said Pratt, “that’s pretty! Beats Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street all to fits. Is that your master’s yacht?”
“The big ’un is, sir—the Sea Launce,” said Humphrey; “the little ’un’s Mr Mervyn’s—the Swallow.”
“By the way, who is this Mr Mervyn?” said Trevor, who had sauntered up.
“Well, sir,” said Humphrey, taking off his hat and rubbing his brown curls, “I don’t kinder know what he is. He’s been in the navy, I think, for he’s a capital sailor; but he’s quite the gentleman, and wonderful kind to the poor people, and he lives in that little white house the other side of the cliff.”
“I can’t see any white house,” said Pratt.
“No, sir, you can’t see it, ’cause it’s the other side of the cliff; but that’s his flagstaff rigged up, as you can see, with the weathercock on it, and—Here, hi! you, sir, come out of that! Here, Juno, lass, come along.”
“Has he gone mad?” cried Pratt.
For Humphrey had suddenly set off down a steep slope towards a meadow, and went on shouting with all his might.