The wind blew softly through the cottage garden, bending the bushes of chrysanthemums by the wall. It rustled among the nasturtiums, and away out into the field beyond. And the words of the letter kept repeating themselves in Daniel’s brain, “Obey God, honour the king.” And now they were not only written words, but they brought the tone of a voice with them.
He re-entered the cottage and faced the stranger once more.
“I can’t do what you’re asking of me,” he said, “but at least I shan’t work agin you, I’ve made up my mind. You may depend upon me.”
“That’s well; then I’ll say good-morning to you, Mr. Maidment. I will leave you this address if you should have any written communication you may want to send.”
He unhitched his horse’s reins from the gate-post, and mounting, went at a swinging trot down the road.
_Under the salt sea’s foam it lay, At the outermost point of a rocky bay, A sandy, tide-pooly, cliff-bound cove With a red-roofed fishing village above Of irregular cottages perched up high Amid pale yellow poppies next to the sky. Shells, and pebbles, and wrack below, And shrimpers shrimping all in a row, Tawny sails and tarry boats, Dark-brown nets and old cork floats, Nasty smells at the nicest spots, Blue-jersey’d sailors, and lobster pots._
A log fire burnt clearly on the wide stone hearth of the “Mariner’s Rest.” Two men sat smoking. A narrow table held their pots of beer, and they had a dingy pack of cards between them. One of these men had lost the third finger of his right hand, and the sinews having contracted, the maimed hand had the rigidity of a claw. This man was alert in expression, his eyes restless. The receding chin suggested the rodent type, and his ears set back on the narrow head completed it.
Opposite him sat Daniel Maidment, and his was an open face, with broad beard, honey-coloured. He wore a blue flannel shirt, falling open at the collar, and a red belt. His hands were brown as mahogany, and he wore gold rings in his ears.
Over these two men stood Master Crumblejohn, the landlord, and watched the game.
“Dan hasn’t the luck to-night he had yesterday,” said the rat-faced man, in the tone of voice that whines at you, “Dan hasn’t the luck. Not but what you play very well, Dan, my boy--not but what you play re-markably.”