Barraclough dropped over the side and landed on the stern sheets of Number 57. A bell clanked and the "Felice" lurched away ruffing the glassy water with her screw.
"Be ye right?" demanded Diamond, drawing up the cable of his anchor.
"Sure thing," said Barraclough. "Let her go."
The anchor came out of the water with a plop, the brown sail was twisted and a little auxiliary oil engine began to snort.
"Wind's settin' just right," said Diamond, the sheet in one hand and the tiller in the other. "Ye 'ad a good time?"
"First rate. Tell you all about it one of these days."
A friendly puff of wind from the South East filled the canvas and drove them shoreward at a slant, the water lapping gently against the bows. It seemed a very little while before they rounded the headland and entered the narrow funnel of cliffs leading into Polperro. Not a soul was to be seen at the breakwater, a circumstance Barraclough noted with satisfaction, although he had no reason to expect opposition. They lowered sail at the harbour mouth and came alongside a slippery wooden ladder stapled into the stone wall of the pier.
"Ye'll take a bite o' breakwus?"
"Not this journey, Jack. I'm getting off as fast as I can. Here, you'd better freeze on to these oil skins. No good to me." He stripped off the coat he was wearing, shook hands, and mounted the ladder.
"Thanks awfully. I'll be down this way for my honeymoon. Good-bye."