"Rum," he said.
"What is?" I asked.
"Searchlights! Smoke! Ships going north! If it wasn't for this blasted Milky Way gone green up there, we might see."
He was too intent to heed my questions for a time. Then he vouchsafed over his shoulder—
"Know Bungalow village?—rather. Artis' and such. Nice goings on! Mixed bathing—something scandalous. Yes."
"But where is it?" I said, suddenly exasperated.
"There!" he said. "What's that flicker? A gunflash—or I'm a lost soul!"
"You'd hear," I said, "long before it was near enough to see a flash."
He didn't answer. Only by making it clear I would distract him until he told me what I wanted to know could I get him to turn from his absorbed contemplation of that phantom dance between the sea rim and the shine. Indeed I gripped his arm and shook him. Then he turned upon me cursing.
"Seven miles," he said, "along this road. And now go to 'ell with yer!"
I answered with some foul insult by way of thanks, and so we parted; and I set off towards the bungalow village.
I found a policeman, standing star-gazing, a little way beyond the end of the parade, and verified the wooden-legged man's directions.
