Patrol Leader Desmond's chief inclination, upon arriving at Bude railway station, was to make the acquaintance of the Spindrift as soon as possible. He had two reasons for so doing: he wanted to see what the yacht was like; he also wished to rest his injured foot in order to get it well as quickly as he could. The thought of being an idler on board, when there was plenty of work for all hands, was repugnant to a fellow of his energetic character.
On making inquiries, he was directed to follow a footpath crossing a stream and leading to the lock gates.
"That's the Spindrift," he said to himself, as the slender masts of a small craft came into view, "or perhaps she's that 'two sticker' lying farther up. I'd better ask someone."
The first person he met was a freckled-faced, curly-haired seafaring man with earrings. He wore no hat, but the visible part of his attire consisted of a loose canvas jumper, a pair of tanned trousers, and brown canvas shoes. He only wanted a musket slung across his shoulder, brace of flint-lock pistols, and a sheath-knife to be the living counterpart of a seventeenth-century buccaneer.
"Please can you tell me if that is the yacht Spindrift?" inquired Desmond politely.
The man looked him up and down before replying. "Ay, 'tes 'er," he announced briefly.
"Thank you," rejoined the Patrol Leader, and was about to resume his way when the man addressed a string of questions uttered in the broadest Cornish dialect.
Desmond shook his head. He did not understand a single sentence.
The man merely grinned, and, without attempting to repeat his words, rolled unsteadily away.
"Funny sort," soliloquized the Patrol Leader. "Looks as if he hasn't lost his sea-legs. But I've found out what I wanted to know."