However, my eyes were to be opened, and in a somewhat unpleasant fashion—the process is not, as a rule, an enjoyable one.
On Sunday the 29th, being the third Sunday of our visit, when we returned from church and the usual augmented Sabbath meeting of malcontents on the pier, we found a gentleman sitting on the bench in the porch awaiting our arrival.
Sunday had hitherto been an off day with us, and we rather resented this infraction of the rules of the game.
I went up to him and addressed him somewhat curtly.
"Well, sir, and what can I do for you?"
He looked at me whimsically, and said—
"Your name is Oxenham?"
"It is."
"Mine is Sawyer."
"Not Mr. William Henry Sawyer, Esquire, of the Home Office?"