The weather was squally, as it often is in August on these coasts; indeed, the summer seemed to have come to an end before its time.
“It is raining like the deuce,” said Roden, “and I am wet through, though I came under the trees of the Oude Weg.”
He spoke with his usual suggestion of a grievance, which made Cornish answer him rather curtly—“We shall be wetter before we get on board.”
It was raining when they quitted the modest Swan, and hurried through the sparsely lighted, winding streets. Cornish had borrowed two oil-skin coats and caps, which at once disguised them and protected them from the rain. Any passer-by would have taken them for a couple of fishermen going about their business. But there were few in the streets.
“Why are you doing all this for me?” asked Roden, suddenly. “To avoid a scandal,” replied Cornish, truthfully enough; for he had been brought up in a world where the longevity of scandal is fully understood.
The wide stretch of sand was entirely deserted when they emerged from the narrow streets and gained the summit of the sea-wall. A thunderstorm was growling in the distance, and every moment a flash of thin summer lightning shimmered on the horizon. The wind was strong, as it nearly always is here, and shallow white surf stretched seaward across the flats. The sea roared continuously without that rise and fall of the breakers which marks a deeper coast, and from the face of the water there arose a filmy mist—part foam, part phosphorescence.
As Roden and Cornish passed the little lighthouse, two policemen emerged from the shadow of the wall, and watched them, half suspiciously. “Good evening,” said one of them.
“Good evening,” answered Cornish, mimicking the sing-song accent of the Scheveningen streets.
They walked on in silence. “Whew!” ejaculated Roden, when the danger seemed to be past, and they could breathe again.
They went down a flight of steps to the beach, and stumbled across the soft sand towards the sea. One or two boats were lying out in the surf—heavy Dutch fishing-boats, known technically as “pinks,” flat-bottomed, round-prowed, keel less, heavy and ungainly vessels, but strong as wood and iron and workmanship could make them. Some seemed to be afloat, others bumped heavily and continuously; while a few lay stolidly on the ground with the waves breaking right over them as over rocks.