Peter Gladden and the Rodenham servants were still drinking and gossiping at the Royal Harry, when Isaac Grimshaw came limping down the street, with the brim of his battered beaver flapping over his face, and his holly stick tapping the stones. He looked worn out and weary, yet spiteful to the last stride. Isaac saw the Rodenham coach waiting outside the inn, and his face flushed almost boyishly, as though Bess and her lover were still within reach of his pistol’s snout. Slinking past the Royal Harry and meeting the full fluster of the wind, he made for the quay where a few fishermen were idling before the warehouses. Isaac hailed a tall fellow in heavy sea-boots and a filthy smock, and stood leaning on his stick, and looking back at the inn with the great coach waiting in the roadway.
“Good-day, mate; fresh breeze this. Any shipping moving?”
The man in the smock leaned against a windlass as though for a gossip, and then cocked his head towards the sea.
“Sussex Queen, Cap’n George, sailed an hour ago.”
“Any passengers, mate?”
“Lady and gen’leman, came in the coach yonder. Took a lot o’ stuff aboard.”
Isaac leaned heavily on his stick for a moment, one hand fumbling at the butts of the pistols under his coat. The fellow in the smock stared at him, and then went on talking, beating one heavy boot on the stone paving of the quay.
“Damned rough weather comin’. Rather be ashore meself than out in the Channel with this sou’wester.”
Isaac nodded, yet did not follow what the fellow said.
“You look cold, father; have a nip at the Royal Harry. What—” He stopped open-mouthed, for Isaac had turned, and was limping away towards the town. The sailor watched him curiously, thinking the old man in his dotage, and that he had wasted his pity on such a crab-apple. He saw Isaac cross the roadway and disappear up an alley that led towards the low cliffs above the beach.