his work was done in the evening, and when they met
alternately at each other's rooms to dine off mutton and potatoes,
with a glass of whisky and a pipe and a game of cards to follow, what
was the meaning of those sudden fits of silence that would strike in
when the general hilarity was at its pitch? And what was the meaning
of the utter recklessness he displayed when they would go out of
an evening in their open sailing boats to shoot sea-fowl, or make a
voyage along the rocky coast in the dead of night to wait for the
dawn to show them the haunts of the seals? The Lavender they had met
occasionally in London was a fastidious, dilettante, self-possessed,
and yet not disagreeable fellow: this man was almost pathetically
anxious about his work, oftentimes he was morose and silent, and then
again there was no sort of danger or difficulty he was not ready to
plunge into when they were sailing about that iron-bound coast. They
could not make it out, but the joke among themselves was that he had
committed a murder, and therefore he was reckless.

This Johnny Eyre was not much of an artist, but he liked the society
of artists: he had a little money of his own, plenty of time, and
a love of boating and shooting, and so he had pitched his tent at
Tarbert, and was proud to cherish the delusion that he was working
hard and earning fame and wealth. As a matter of fact, he never earned
anything, but he had very good spirits, and living in Tarbert is
cheap.

From the moment that Lavender had come to the place, Johnny Eyre made
him his special companion. He had a great respect for a man who could
shoot anything anywhere; and when he and Lavender came back together
from a cruise, there was no use saying which had actually done
the brilliant deeds the evidence of which was carried ashore. But
Lavender, oddly enough, knew little about sailing, and Johnny was
pleased to assume the airs of an instructor on this point; his only
difficulty being that his pupil had more than the ordinary hardihood
of an ignoramus, and was rather inclined to do reckless things even
after he had sufficient skill to know that they were dangerous.

Lavender got into the small boat, taking his canvas with him, but
leaving his easel in the fishing-smack. He pulled himself and Johnny
Eyre ashore: they scrambled up the rocks and into the road, and then
they went into the small white cottage in which Lavender lived. The
picture was, for greater safety, left in La