"On the quay by that cottage you can see down there," he replied, pointing to a prettily situated, creeper-covered house close to the water's edge. "We start at seven."
And, touching his hat, the mud-stained individual strolled away with the peculiar slouching gait affected by most seafaring men. "What ought we to give him for the passage down?" asked my father of the station-master, after the motor-boat person had taken his departure. The official smiled in a very amused fashion.
"I don't think I would offer him anything, if I were you," he replied. "He is the Hon. George Pycrust, owner of the steam-yacht 'Chimborazo,' member of the Motor-Yacht Club, and I don't know what else besides. There's no room for snobs on this river, and yachtmen do each other a good turn whenever they have a chance."
We were directed to a little inn on the hill above the railway-station, and here in a few minutes we were enjoying a substantial tea, including a determined attack upon a freshly boiled Warsash crab, a delicacy for which the district is famous, although the flavour is distinctly different from that of the shell-fish caught on our part of the coast.
Punctually at seven o'clock we arrived at the private quay where the Hon. George's motor-launch was waiting, and with the faintest tremor her powerful engine was started and we sped rapidly down the river, my father keeping up an animated conversation with the mud-stained scion of a noble house on the ever-ready subject of yachting.
Quickly the lead-coloured hulks of the obsolete gunboats were left astern, and the three-masted training ship "Mercury" passed, and we came in sight of the red-tiled roofs of Hamble village, fringed with a forest of yachts' masts and backed by a dense mass of trees.
"I'll land you at Roach's private steps," observed our kindly benefactor. "There will be just time to see the 'Fortuna' before dusk. She's a perfect beauty. I came across from Cherbourg in her in a regular sou'-easter, and a better sea boat you could not possibly imagine. If you decide to have her, and keep her in this station, I shall doubtless come across you at times. Here we are. Out fenders and stand by with the boathook," he added, addressing the launch's boy. With scarcely a jar the boat ran alongside the floating landing-stage, and, taking a hearty adieu of the kindly owner, we stepped ashore.
From the pontoon a narrow plank gangway brought us to another broader pier-like structure that ran parallel to the shore over a stretch of soft mud. Here, packed like sardines in a box, were rows of yachts of all sizes and rigs, lying snugly in their mid-berths.
"Ah! Here is Roach, I believe," exclaimed my father, as an alert-looking personage in a yachtsman's uniform came hurrying along the gangway to meet us.
"My name's Trevena. I wired you this morning about the 'Fortuna.' You are Mr. Roach, I presume?"