ho frolicked on the beach
below. Backwards and forwards flew the light-hearted banter, like
balls of sea-foam, Mr. Pilkington the inspirer and the inspired. The
after-glow of his last triumphant witticism still illuminated his
countenance when he turned again to the printed page.

Now, owing to its peculiar construction, Harmouth High Street acts as
a funnel for the off-shore breezes; they rush through it as they rush
through Windy Gap, that rift in the coast before which the wary
fisherman slackens sail. Just such an air was careering seawards when
Mr. Pilkington was about to perform the difficult feat of folding his
paper backwards. It smote one side of the broadsheet and tore it from
his grasp, making it flutter like a sail escaped from the lanyard. The
breeze dropped; it hovered; it waited like the wanton that it was; and
when Mr. Pilkington's free hand made a clutch at the flying columns,
it seized that moment to lift his hat from his head and dash it to the
ground. Then the demon of the wind entered into and possessed that
high thing; the hat rolled, it curvetted, it turned brim over crown,
it took wings and flew, low and eager like a cormorant; finally it
struck the beach, gathering a frightful impetus from the shock, and
bounded seawards, the pebbles beating from it a thin drum-like note.
Never was any created thing so tortured with indecent merriment in the
face of doom. The end seemed certain, for Dicky Pilkington, though he
joined in the hysterics of the crowd, had not compromised his dignity
by pursuit; when, just as the hat touched the foam of perdition, Molly
Trick, the fat bathing woman, interposed the bulwark of her body; she
stooped; she spread her wide skirts, and the maniac leapt into them as
into a haven.

The young men who watched this breezy incident over the blinds of the
London and Provincial Bank were immensely diverted. Even Rickman
laughed as Dicky turned to him his cheerful face buffeted by the wind.

Mr. Pilkington had put up at the same hotel as Rickman, and they found
themselves alone at the dinner-table.

"Glori-orious air this," said Mr. Pilkington. "I don't know how you
feel, young 'un, but there's a voice that tells me I shall dine."

Mr. Pilkington was not deceived by that prophetic voice. He dined with
appetite undiminished by his companion's gloom. From time to time he
rallied him on his coyness under the fascinations of beef-steak, lager
beer, apricots and Devonshire cream.