But all things come to an end in time; and, after thirty-six hours of absolute misery, Pincher revived to find the squadron steaming into Arosa Bay.
So this was Spain! he thought to himself, looking round with interest as they passed into the sheltered anchorage. He had imagined it to be rather a wonderful country, but if this was a fair sample, he didn't go much on it. A large indented bay; a few blue hills in the distance; a low-lying, arid-looking country, dotted here and there with wooded clumps and patches of cultivated ground; a few small white houses and a gray stone church or two; a straggling town and a long pier at the head of the bay; and many fishing-boats with strangely cut sails. There was a peculiar tang in the air, the nature of which he could not at first determine. It was neither the sweet odour of freshly turned earth, new-mown hay, or heather, nor yet the honest salty smell of the open sea. It was something far more pungent and overpowering. He found out afterwards that it emanated from various sardine-preserving factories, and the discovery put him off canteen 'sharks' for quite a week. There are sardines and sardines; let us be thankful they are not all Spanish sardines!
No, Pincher's impressions of the first foreign country he had ever visited were not exactly enthralling. Spain looked a very ordinary place from the water, and it did not improve on further acquaintance when he went ashore with Billings the same afternoon.
The town, Villagarçia, was not a delectable spot. It smelt of garlic and ancient fish. Its streets, badly paved and odoriferous with heaps of nameless garbage, seemed to provide a happy hunting-ground for many lean, fierce dogs, perambulating pigs and goats accompanied by their families, and prowling poultry. The people, too, looked dirty and ill-favoured, and the better-class men all smoked cigarettes and wore long black cloaks and wideawake hats, like clergymen at home in England. Numbers of barefooted boys and girls of all ages between three and seventeen followed Pincher and Billings about wherever they went. 'I say! On' penni!' they demanded persistently, holding out their grubby hands. 'I say, Jack! Damn you! I say, on' penni!' There was no getting rid of them until the pennies were forthcoming; and their stock phrases--all the English they knew--seemed to have been handed down from generation to generation, ever since British men-of-war first started to visit the place in the year one. It was a paying game, for the bluejacket is always free with his hard-earned money.