"Why, do you expect a storm?" I asked, looking at the blue above.
"Well, I wouldn't say it mightn't squall a bit. There's thun'er about too. Better take a hand with ye."
"Better take a second hand," added Tim; "them mare's tails is subspicious. How far d'ye think o' goin'?"
"Round Ratcham Head, and away to Greystones. I suppose we can fetch that?"
"Ay, ay; tide's makin', and we can come back with a flowin' sheet agin' it, proper. Here's my lad, Tim; he can go for the prog. Suppose you'll want somethin'?"
"Of course. Here's the money. Get anything you like, and some beer. Look slippy, Tim. Come back as soon as you can."
Tim touched his cap, took the money, and set off rapidly in the direction of the main street—the only one—of Beachmouth, which was then a small, almost unknown, watering-place. Now it is growing rapidly. Our house and grounds have already been purchased for building purposes, and in the few years which have elapsed since my disappointment the changes have been many and various.
I waited with impatience for Tim's return. The sea was calm. The breeze, which was off-shore, was gentle from the north-west, westing, and the sky was deep blue, with a haze hanging about, indicative of heat in the future hours. The distant vessels—not steamers—were lazily dipping in the offing, not making much way, but still progressing, so we could hope for a breeze outside.
The dirty, chalky cliff sheltered us, and accentuated the rays of the sun, which, reflected from the water, burned and blistered us that summer more than usual, but as I was so much on the sea perhaps I felt it more then. At anyrate, that August day I felt the heat greatly, and became impatient for Tim's return with the "grub," so that we might get away, and sail down Channel, away into the west perhaps.
After what seemed an hour, but was really twenty minutes, we sighted Tim carrying a parcel and a jar, three tumblers being hung around his neck, and his jacket pockets bulging. One glance satisfied me, and I called to Murry to come along.