s a squeeze. The same with little Collett, after hearing of
him as the old schoolmate of the established new friend. Then there was
talk. Little Collett named Felixstowe as the village of his mother's
house and garden sloping to the sands. 'That 's it-you have it,' said
the salted Matthew: 'peace is in that spot, and there I 've sworn to
pitch my tent when I 'm incapacitated for further exercise--profitable,
so to speak. My eldest girl has a bar of amber she picked up one wash of
the tide at Felixstowe, and there it had been lying sparkling, unseen,
hours, the shore is that solitary. What I like!--a quiet shore and a
peopled sea. Ever been to Brighton? There it 's t' other way.'

Not long after he had mentioned the time of early evening for their
entry into his port of Harwich, the coach turned quietly over on a
bank of the roadside, depositing outside passengers quite safely, in
so matter-of-course a way, that only the screams of an uninjured lady
inside repressed their roars of laughter. One of the wheels had come
loose, half a mile off the nearest town. Their entry into Harwich was
thereby delayed until half-past nine at night. Full of consideration for
the new mates now fast wedded to his heart by an accident. Matthew Shale
proposed to Matthew Weyburn, instead of the bother of crossing the ferry
with a portmanteau and a bag at that late hour, to sup at his house, try
the neighbouring inn for a short sleep, and ship on board his yawl, the
honest Susan, to be rowed ashore off the Swin to Felixstowe sands no
later than six o'clock of a summer's morning, in time for a bath and
a swim before breakfast. It sounded well--it sounded sweetly. Weyburn
suggested the counter proposal of supper for the three at the inn. But
the other Matthew said: 'I married a cook. She expects a big appetite,
and she always keeps warm when I 'm held away, no matter how late. Sure
to be enough.'

Beds were secured at the inn; after which came the introduction to
Mrs. Shale, the exhibition of Susan Shale's bar of amber, the dish of
fresh-fried whiting, the steak pudding, a grog, tobacco, rest at the
inn, and a rousing bang at the sleepers' doors when the unwonted supper
in them withheld an answer to the intimating knock. Young Matthew Shale,
who had slept on board the Susan, conducted them to her boat. His glance
was much drawn to the very white duck trousers Weyburn had put on, for a
souvenir of the approbation they had won at Marlow. They were