“and see, you are in the middle of the crowd.”
We were not far from the bathing machines; and on every side of us were groups of people, laughing, talking, flirting,—all supremely merry, and not over careful about modulating the tones of their voices. The man with the guitar appeared to be the only person on the whole beach who was not making a noise. He, poor fellow, had broken one of the strings of his instrument, and was sitting by himself, disconsolately, trying to mend it. A family of foreign minstrels had settled themselves in front of the lapidary’s shop, and the eldest boy was singing an Italian song, doing his utmost to make himself heard. He was, I own, singing under difficulties. The laughter of the bathers and the buzz of the talkers hardly conduced to render his voice the more audible; while the old bells of St. Augustine’s church on the cliff above were ringing a loud wedding peal.
“In the middle of the infernal regions, I should say. I never heard such a horrid Babel in my life,” muttered Wood, as he stalked off, and I went to the boat.
“I expected that you would come, Mr. Fred,” said old Dan. He always called me Mr. Fred. We had been great friends ever since he gave me my first lesson in rowing, when I was a very little fellow. I believe I took to him then wonderfully; and since that time he had never seemed to me to have changed nor to have grown older. He always was, as far back as I could remember, the same sturdy, broad-shouldered man, with the same bronzed face, and the same clear, keen, grey eye. He had been for several years on board a man-of-war, but he was not a great talker on any subject, and never, I believe, spoke of his younger days. A superannuated, half-witted veteran, who lived in the town, declared that he was with Dan Baker on board H.M.S. Etna. But the veteran knew nothing about Dan’s history, and Dan himself never told it to any one. There was something in it he evidently wished to conceal, and the odd name of his boat, the Faithless Maid, was the only ground on which curious people could build. He was, in spite of his taciturnity, a great favourite with us young fellows. We had christened him Cato; he seemed to have such a kindred spirit to the great Roman censor. He was so unyielding and exact; so frugal in his diet, never drinking anything but water, eating very little, and never smoking. He always gave one the impression, when he spoke, that he had a vast amount of knowledge in him, but which he was unwilling to impart to others. He talked very slowly, bringing out each word with the greatest deliberation, as though he chewed and digested it well mentally before uttering it. But he was a good boatman, and was much sought after by the people, who were accustomed to make use of the pleasure-boats at Cliffgate.
“Strange scenes in these boats sometimes, Mr. Fred,” the old fellow said suddenly, after he had pulled for some minutes without speaking.
“Ah, I suppose so,” I answered carelessly, and without thinking what I said. My thoughts were just then turned upon a bet I had made, and which had happened rather oddly. It was between six of us: Ned Darwell, Wood, Lucas and one of his cousins, Andrews, and myself. And he who shook hands first with a certain young lady was to win the stakes. Ned called my attention to her as we were walking in the Rose Gardens, listening to the band.
“By Jove!” he said, nipping my arm, “there’s a jolly girl.”
She had very dark hair and eyes, which were rendered the more attractive by a bewitching little mauve hat, with a white veil tied behind in a bow. She was rather tall and slight, but very graceful; and her little feet as they peeped out every now and then from under her muslin dress—for the grass was rather damp, and the dress had to be held up—seemed perfection. She was accompanied by an old, soldierly-looking gentleman, and a young fellow, of about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, was walking by her other side.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” answered Ned. “Some new importation. Hullo! here’s Lucas; he is sure to know. I say, Lucas, my boy, who is that dark girl with the hat?”
“Oh, hang the girl with the rum-shaped hat! She’s Letitia Turner. Everybody knows her ugly phiz.”
“No; the one with the mauve hat and white veil. There! man alive! can’t you see? There! just turning round at the end of the walk. Do you see her now?”
“Don’t know her at all,” said the other. “Do you, John?” he asked, turning to his cousin.
“Never saw her before,” said the cousin. “But she’s awfully swell.”
Then Wood and Andrews strolled up. They asked us the very question we were going to ask them; so we discovered that the young lady was a perfect stranger to us all. Whereupon Lucas undertook to rout her out, as he called it, and tell us.
“I say, Lucas,” said Ned, who was rather