room with his hands clasped behind his coat-tails before settling down to correct my iambics.
"John Emmet is dead," he announced, pausing before the window with his back towards me and gazing out upon the ill-kept lawn.
"Wasn't he the coxswain of the life-boat?" I asked.
"Ah, to be sure, you never saw him, did you? He took to his bed before you came … a long illness. Well, well, it's all over!" Parson West sighed. "He saved, or helped to save, a hundred and fifteen lives, first and last. A hundred and fifteen lives!"
"I've heard something of the sort down at the Porth. A hundred and fifty, I think they said. They seemed very proud of him down there."
"Why?" The Vicar faced round on me, and added after a moment abruptly—"He didn't belong to them: he was even born in this parish."
"Where then?"
He disregarded the question. "Besides, the number was a hundred and fifteen: that's just the pity."
I did not understand: but he had seated himself at table and was running through my iambics. In the third verse he underlined a false quantity with blue pencil and looked up for an explanation. While I confessed the fault, his gaze wandered away from me and fell upon his fingers drumming upon the table's edge. A slant of red sunshine touched the signet-ring
