I had not seen him since his marriage, which had happened in the spring. Working my way back from Scotland by easy stages, I stopped for a few days at Scarboro’. After table d’hôte I put on my mackintosh, and went out for a walk. It was raining hard, but after a month in Scotland one does not notice English weather, and I wanted some air. Struggling along the dark beach with my head against the wind, I stumbled over a crouching figure, seeking to shelter itself a little from the storm under the lee of the Spa wall.
I expected it to swear at me, but it seemed too broken-spirited to mind anything.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I did not see you.”
At the sound of my voice it started to its feet.
“Is that you, old man?” it cried.
“McQuae!” I exclaimed.
“By Jove!” he said, “I was never so glad to see a man in all my life before.”
And he nearly shook my hand off.
“But what in thunder!” I said, “are you doing here? Why, you’re drenched to the skin.”
He was dressed in flannels and a tennis-coat.