extremely weatherwise, and good at carrying small people pickaback
when they got tired.

Marty was well up in local folk-lore, and had mastered the history
of Whitby and St. Hilda, and Sylvia Robson; and of the old obsolete
whaling-trade, in which she took a passionate interest; and fixed
poor little Chips's mind with a passion for the Polar regions (he is
now on the coast of Senegambia).

We were much on the open sea ourselves, in cobles; sometimes the big
dog with us--"Joomboa," as the fishermen called him; and they
marvelled at his good manners and stately immobility in a boat.

One afternoon--a perfect afternoon--we took tea at Runswick, from
which charming little village the Whitbys take their second title,
and had ourselves rowed round the cliffs to Staithes, which we
reached just before sunset; Chips and his sister also taking an oar
between them, and I another. There, on the brink of the little bay,
with the singularly quaint and picturesque old village behind it,
were fifty fishing-boats side by side waiting to be launched, and
all the fishing population of Staithes were there to launch
them--men, women and children; as we landed we were immediately
pressed into the service.

Marty and Chips, wild with enthusiasm, pushed and yo-ho'd with the
best; and I also won some commendation by my hearty efforts in the
common cause. Soon the coast was clear of all but old men and boys,
women and children, and our four selves; and the boats all sailed
westward, in a cluster, and lost themselves in the golden haze. It
was the prettiest sight I ever saw, and we were all quite romantic
about it.

Chucker-out held a small court on the sands, and was worshipped and
fed with stale fish by a crowd of good-looking and agreeable little
lasses and lads who called him "Joomboa," and pressed Chips and
Marty for biographical details about him, and were not disappointed.
And I smoked a pipe of pipes with some splendid old salts, and
shared my Honeydew among them.

Nous etions bien, la!

So sped those happy weeks--with something new and exciting every
day--even on rainy days, when we wore waterproofs and big
india-rubber boots and sou'westers, and Chucker-out's coat got so
heavy with the soak that he could hardly drag himself along: and we
settled, we three at least, that we would never go to France or
Scotland--never any more--never anywhere in the world but Whitby,
jolly Whitby--

Ah me! l'homme propose....

Marty always