Having completed the repast and cleared away, Mr. Clifton suggested a spell ashore.
"We'll give Rex a run," he added. "And I'll call at the post office in case there are any letters sent on for me."
The crew went ashore. On the bank were several people interested in the yacht and the now diminishing smoke-screen.
"Measly old gent that, sir," remarked one jerking his thumb in the direction of the cantankerous owner of the river-side property. "'Think 'e owns all Ravensholm 'e do. Drat'n; if 'e wur to fall in river this very minute I for one wouldn't fish 'im out."
The other onlookers supported this sentiment. Evidently Mr. Horatio Snodburry, the obnoxious individual under discussion, was far from being popular with his fellow-townsfolk.
At the post office, Mr. Clifton was handed three letters and a newspaper. These he thrust into his pocket for future perusal. Then by a circuitous route, including a visit to Mr. Thorley's farm for milk, the crew of the Thetis returned to the yacht.
There was still a knot of sightseers, dividing their attention between the strange craft and the vindictive old fellow across the river, who was still staring at the little yacht as if to mesmerise her out of existence.
"Excuse me, sir," courteously exclaimed a well-dressed individual standing on the bank. "Might I have a word with you?"
"Certainly," replied Mr. Clifton. "Come on board."
The gentleman accepted the invitation.