“Axing y’r pardons, honours both,” said Captain Sharkie Nye, stepping forward at this juncture to knuckle a bristly eyebrow at each in turn and jerk a thumb shorewards, “but yonder lays Noohaven, an’ the ‘Anchor’ be a fair, good inn. Y’ see, sirs, George Potter ain’t signalled us, which do mean as us must stand off an’ on till it be dark. So if it be arl the same to ye, sirs, we’ll set ye ashore so soon as you be ready.”
Sir Hector assenting forthwith, the boat was got alongside, and they prepared to descend.
“Lord love us, Sir ’Ector, your honour!” exclaimed Captain Nye as they shook hands, “’twas a woundy good shot o’ yourn, a shot as will be minded an’ talked on fur many a day, aye—long arter we be dry bones, I reckon. ’Tidn’t often a King’s ship be ’andled so rough, an’ ’tis for arl on us to keep tight mouths, I reckon. I’ll be into Alfriston one o’ these nights in the dark o’ the moon to smoke a pipe wi’ your honour, ’cording to custom.”
And so, having got into the pitching boat with no small difficulty, they were rowed ashore (discreetly outside the harbour), and were soon tramping up the slope of pebbly beach, beyond which lay the town. Presently they paused, as by mutual consent, and glanced back to see the boat hauled aboard the lugger, whose sails were smartly trimmed, and away foamed the True Believer seawards, with Captain Sharkie Nye waving his red cap to them from her rail.
“And now,” sighed Sir John, “as regards that promised herring——”
“Herring!” snorted Sir Hector. “My puir lass—are ye no’ hungry—famishing?”
“Too hungry to tell, sir!” she answered.
“After all, Hector,” quoth Sir John, “though undoubtedly nourishing, perhaps a herring is not——”
“Tae the de’il wi’ y’r herrin’, man! Tam Levitt at the ‘Anchor’ yonder hath ay a ham tae cut at, wi’ a prime roast o’ beef ... by Andrew, the thocht nigh unmans me! Gi’e’s y’r hand, Rose, an’ let’s rin for ’t!” And off they raced forthwith, until my lady checked and bade Sir Hector “remember his poor arm!”
“And your hoary age, Hector!” added Sir John.