Then he remembered Waynsford's invitation to look him up if he happened to be within easy distance of Scarborough.
"Somewhat of the nature of a busman's holiday," he mused, as he wrote his proposed address in the leave-book: "R.M.B.R. 'Lonette,' Scarborough."
Dick Waynsford, apprised by telegraph, was on the station platform to greet him.
"Glad you're come, old man," he exclaimed. "Anything to buck a fellow up?"
"Why, what's wrong now?" asked Terence.
"Nothing in particular; only I'm getting thoroughly fed up in this place. Nothing much to do but to run errands to the mine-sweepers that occasionally put into the bay. A fisherman could do the job equally as well as I can. You've been having an exciting time, I hear?"
"Somewhat," replied Aubyn modestly. "Now, let's be making a move."
The two chums jumped into a waiting taxi, Waynsford giving the chauffeur directions to drive as straight as he jolly well knew how to Sandside, and not to take them half-way round the town to get there.
"'Sandside'—that sounds all right," thought Terence, but his expectations were unrealized as the taxi drew up in the rather dingy quarter of Scarborough adjoining the harbour.
"There she is," announced Waynsford, pointing to the grey hull of the "Lonette," which, barely water-borne, was reclining against the lofty wall of the harbour. "One of the best runs I ever had in her was when we brought her round from Yarmouth."