He went blithe and light-hearted, though he thought me insane; he returned with the air of a serving-man who, expecting to find a well-equipped pantry, had wandered into a charnel house.
“It's an awful place, sir. It's sixteen miles from a railway station. The shore is a mud flat. There's no hotel, and the inhabitants are like cannibals.”
“I start for Murglebed-on-Sea to-morrow,” said I.
Rogers started at me. His loose mouth quivered like that of a child preparing to cry.
“We can't possibly stay there, sir,” he remonstrated.
“We are not going to try,” I retorted. “I'm going by myself.”
His face brightened. Almost cheerfully he assured me that I should find nothing to eat in Murglebed.
“You can amuse yourself,” said I, “by sending me down a daily hamper of provisions.”
“There isn't even a church,” he continued.
“Then you can send me down a tin one from Humphreys'. I believe they can supply one with everything from a tin rabbit-hutch to a town hall.”