The American almost fell off the platform in surprise.
“Why—er—no, I don't blame 'em,” he blurted, not having a ghost of a notion what the Englishman was talking about. “No, I—I never blamed 'em a bit—never did.”
“Those were poetic days, Madden.”
The American stared, his mind as much at sea as his body.
“Think of that Phoenician sailing his galley for the Isles of Tin. The Romans follow him, day after day, week after week. But does he betray the secret of Tyre's wealth?” Caradoc made a gesture. Madden was about to answer that he didn't know, when the orator went on.
“He does not. Rather than expose the rich mines of Cornwall, he dashes his galley upon a reef and risks his life among the early English barbarians.”
“Was it here where that happened?” asked Madden interestedly, fishing some such tale from the bottom of his recollection.
Caradoc stood upright on the swinging platform, hands thrust in jacket pockets, thumbs out, Oxford fashion. His tall form swayed
