“The Amaranth, fast steam-yacht (Captain Evans, Commander), will sail daily from Hyde pier-head (weather permitting) for a two hours’ trip in the Solent. Fares: Saloon, half a crown; fore cabin, one shilling.”
“Doing much business?” asked Mr. Brentin carelessly, cocking his eye on the man.
“Pretty fair, mister,” the sailor replied, “when the weather’s like this. There’s a good few aboard already.”
“Is there?” Mr. Brentin innocently remarked. “All right. Give Captain Evans Sir Anthony Hipkins’s compliments and say we will come aboard right away.”
“Sir Anthony! Lord love you!” ejaculated the sailor, and was off pretty fast down to the pier-head.
“We will give the captain a few minutes to clear out his Ryde friends,” observed Mr. Brentin with a wink, “and then we will pro-ceed.”
And, sure enough, as we got leisurely down to the pier-head there we found a boat just landing from the Amaranth, half a dozen excursionists in her with hand-bags and bottles, talking fast among themselves and giving frightened glances back at the yacht lying in the tideway two or three hundred yards off.
“Anything wrong on board, my friend?” drawled Mr. Brentin to a large, puce-faced man with a red comforter loosely knotted round his throat, as he clambered up the pier steps.
“Anythin’ wrong?” echoed the terrified man. “Captain says rust ’as suddenly got into the b’ilers and ’e’s afraid they’ll bust. That’s all!—Mother, where’s Emma?”
“We shall have the ship to ourselves,” remarked Mr. Brentin. “Music provided, too. Sakes alive!”