I had not far to travel. We lived then within two miles of the Channel, and close to a tiny station, at which a few branch trains stopped during the day. Perceiving that one of these tiny trains was approaching, I hastened on and caught it. In five minutes afterwards I was crunching the shingle, near the boats, on the beach. Several boatmen accosted me; I knew them well. They humoured me,—I liked them.
"Mornin', sir! Fine mornin' for a sail," said Murry, a queer, old, weather-beaten salt, who had served in the merchant marine. "Goin' out, sir?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied shortly. "How's the tide?"
"Young gentleman's arskin' for the tide, Tim," remarked another salted fellow. "As if he wasn't a sailor now!"
"I am no sailor," I replied savagely. "I'm plucked!"
"Plucked! What d'ye mean? Thrown overboard? Who's been pullin' your leg, sir?"
"It's true. My eyes are bad, the doctor says," I muttered. "He's an ass."
"Your eyes bad? Well, that beats! Why, I wish I'd one o' them at your age! It's a mistake, whoever said it, I say that much."
"Well, anyway, I'm not to be a sailor—not in the navy, anyhow. Perhaps never at all. But let's shut it up. Where's the boat?"
"Yonder she swims," said Murry. "Ye can go where ye like to-day, if you're not venturesome too much."