‘We’re much too early, John. I said we should be. There’s not a sign of a bass.’ I lifted the sail and peered across the shining water.

‘Nought’s lost by bein’ in time, sir,’ said the old boatman. ‘They’ll sport with the flood. And there be another boat over there. Mr. Harris and his little boy.’

‘He never misses these early tides,’ I said. ‘I suppose they just suit him. He can have his sport before he has to open his shop. He’s pretty venturesome to come out here by himself. But I suppose he knows the Bar as well as you sailor-men?’

‘He didn’t at one time, sir. He’d as soon have set himself down on a hot stove as come out here.’ And old John’s deep-set blue eyes twinkled. ‘What changed him? Well, it all had to do with his courtship, and getting of his wife. There’s a bit o’ ebb to run, and whilst I fixes they minnows I’ll tell ’ee about it. Just let me get at that locker fust. Thank ’ee, sir. That’s it.

‘Well, except that the good Lord had ordained his place in the world, and so he were bound to fill it, I dunno but what the most curious thing weren’t Mr. Harris coming to Appledore village at all, and living among us rough fisher-folk, for to all appearance he were as much out o’ place as a limpet in a garden rockery. And you’ll agree, sir, when you hears ’ow I fust became acquainted with him.

‘’Twas some while ago now, sir, and I’d a-been away from home, out foreign down along the coast o’ Cuba, and ’twas a wretched night when I sets foot once more on Appledore quay. Dark, and wet, and blowy. No one weren’t about, and the shops were all shut, and the street lamps had blowed out. The light from the barber’s shop at the far corner were the only cheerful thing in sight. When I gets to it, what should I see but a little, youngish, clean-faced, bald-headed man in his shirt-sleeves, and with a white apron on, and big gold spectacles, crouching against the wall, trying to shelter hisself from the wind and wet. He looks up in a queer, blinky way, and I stops.

‘“Why,” I says, “what’s this? Where’s old Puggy?”

‘“Mr. Pugstiles is dead,” pipes the little man, “and I’ve bought his business. And some young men have thrown me out o’ the shop,” and he coughs behind his ’and very genteel.

‘I opens the door. There was a dozen half-growed young chaps sprawling about the shop and roaring with laughing, and playing the fool. I never had no use for they scamps what hangs about the ferry and won’t go to sea, and I was going to put ’em out when the little man stops me.

‘“No, thank you,” he says very polite, “I would rather manage this alone.”

‘So, as he wouldn’t let me help ’im, I goes off home. And that, sir, were the fust time as ever I see Mr. Harris. I’ve known him a long time now, but I’ve never forgot my fust sight o’ him, crouching under the window, with the rain and wind beating down upon him.

‘He were small and weak, and his chest were bad. That was why he come away from London. His voice were peepy like a chicken calling the old hen. He didn’t drink, and he didn’t smoke, and he didn’t swear, and to say truth there was so many things against him, no one could say which was the wust. He were the fair butt o’ the place; even the women and girls derided him.

‘I was always a wanderer, and soon I goes off again, to Antwerp, and then away to Java. I were three good years older when next I landed on Appledore quay. ’Twas much such a night as t’other, cold and wet and blowy. But the light from the barber’s shop was shining out on the wet stones, and Mr. Harris, who I do believe I hadn’t thought on since I went away, comes into my mind again, all of a sudden.

‘“He’m gone. The place looks quiet enough now,” says I to myself. Then I shoves open the door.

‘’Tis a long, narrow room, with benches at the side. They benches were full o’ men sitting quiet waiting their turn. At the far end I see Mr. Harris shaving away like a good ’un, his bald head and his gold specs shining in the lamplight. I were so astonished I stood still without speaking. Then he says in the peepy little voice I remembered so well,

‘“I will ask one of you gentlemen kindly to shut that door, and keep it shut.”

‘And I’m blest if the most cantankerous chap in the place didn’t get up quite quiet, and shut it without a word. And then I went home.

‘Well, sir, I found Mr. Harris had got to be boss of the village. ’Twas the wonderfullest thing! He was the same little weak man I had fust seen, a surprised-looking creature with his big gold glasses, and his pale face, and his mouth half open, but lor bless you! the whole place bowed down to him. He were Secretary to the Regatta, and Churchwarden, and sang in the choir, and sometimes read the lessons, and when the Vicar put in they peal of bells, with the thing by which you can play times on ’em, it was Mr. Harris who played on ’em all his spare time, till some folks who lived near the church, and didn’t care for music, wished they bells further.

‘I saw what he was for myself a few days after I got home. Me and Tom Jenkyns was passing his shop one fine morning and Mr. Harris, in his white apron and gold specs, was on the quay peering about in the sun. Tom ain’t a beauty when he’s sober, which he weren’t then by no means, so I gets in between ’em. Mr. Harris looks up in his gentle way through his glasses.

‘“Dear me, Mr. Jenkyns,” he says, “I am sorry to see you with such a dirty chin! It wouldn’t do for you to meet a young lady with that chin! Oh, no. You’d better come inside,” and he ’as Tom in the shop and in the chair, and shaves him, and has ’im outside again, before Tom could think where to tell him to go to. Now that was a wonderful thing. Don’t ’ee think so, sir?’

‘Indeed I do,’ I said, for I knew Mr. Jenkyns pretty well. ‘How on earth did he manage him? How did he work it?’

‘You may well ask that, sir. But ’tis more easy asked than told. How did he do such things? None can say. He never lost his temper; he never raised his voice, he never laughed—not out loud. And he looked at you in that queer, wondering way. And then his manners, and his politeness! And he never give in to nobody.

‘Time went on, and he prospered. He was clever at his job, having the London tricks, and he went about attending on gentlemen’s houses. His ’ealth come back, and he got smarter and younger looking, and he wore a white collar and a white shirt every day, even under his apron. How ’e could abear they collars I can’t think. When my wife puts one on me I feels like a bird in a cage. But there, I s’pose it is all use. His white linen used to shine, and his eyes shine through his glasses. And he painted his ’ouse white, and put boxes of flowers in the windows. He rigged up a big red and white barber’s pole, and on Sundays he ’oisted the Jack on it. He did well, and we was proud of him.

‘And then, well then, just as everything was going so well, what do you think happened, sir?’

‘Perhaps I can guess,’ I said. ‘The ladies. They took a hand?’

‘They did, sir. They did. They’d looked on Mr. Harris all along with scorn, and troubled noth’en about him. Then all of a sudden it come to ’em how blind they’d been. And that here were a nice young man, for he were only a little over thirty, with collars and shirts and a business, and beautiful manners, and a white house with flowers in boxes, and all agoing begging. From that moment he hadn’t a single hour’s peace. They was all at him, though the old ’uns was the wust. They sent him things to eat, and tried to get him to convoy ’em back from church. Old Widow Paul were took ill on his door-step and had to be carried into the shop. Miss Belcher, she as married pore old Tom Cole after he ’ad broke his leg, attacked him on his business side, and sent him a parcel of combings to be made up. Me and a lot o’ chaps was there when they come, and all I can say is, if they was all out of her ’ead, she must have ’ad a scalp like a tortoise-shell cat.

‘But it was all o’ no use. Mr. Harris didn’t like any o’ them, maid or widow, and he kept away from ’em. He was well guarded too; always there were someone in his shop. And the old woman who kep’ house for him, her ’usband being in an ’ome for uncurables, helped to keep ’em off.

‘Well, sir, things jogged along quite comfortable like till a queer thing happened. Me and Jenkyns was in his shop one brisk morning, when Tom, who ’ad a drop o’ beer in him as usual, winks at me and says:

‘“You did ought to see my sister-in-law, Mr. Harris,” says he; “she’d be the very young lady for you!”

‘Mr. Harris was stropping a razor. He looks round in his queer blinky way, but instead o’ putting Tom down he says:

‘“And what might she be like, Mr. Jenkyns?”

‘“She’m the fust girl in these parts. She lives with her mother to Lundy Island. She can cook, and she’m house-wise; what’s more she’m a heaven-born laundress, and she’m big and dark with red cheeks and blue eyes, and her name is Mirandy,” says Tom all in a breath.

‘Mr. Harris listens with his ’ead on one side, and a funny look comes over his face and his eyes sparkles. Tom forgets hisself and spits on the floor, but instead o’ requesting him to leave the shop Mr. Harris only says,

‘“And does the young lady ever come over here, Mr. Jenkyns?”

‘“She does not,” says Tom; “she bides to home and ’elps her mother. Capt. Dark, who goes to Lundy every week with the mails, have many a time offered her a free pass on his lugger, but she wouldn’t accept.”

‘“But—but her affections?” says Mr. Harris presently very gently; “perhaps they are engaged? Such a young lady!”

‘“She ain’t got no chap, if that’s what you mean,” says Tom; “there ain’t none to Lundy. Last time I come away I thought ’twere a pity there weren’t no young feller to arm ’er up the rocks. She were as pretty as a picture, with the waves breaking all about her feet.”

‘“Sea King’s daughter,” says Mr. Harris to hisself. But I heered ’im.

‘“She knows about you,” Tom goes on. “I tells her in general conversation what a deal people think o’ you. ‘He must be a leader o’ men,’ says she. But there is a phottygraf o’ her to home. I’ll fetch ’un,” and with that he goes out and Mr. Harris has me in the chair, and shaves me. His ’and were shaking so I were glad to escape without bloodshed. Then Tom comes back, and hands over the photty. Mr. Harris looks at it, and drops the razor. He gets pinker and pinker, and smiles and laughs and sets it on a little shelf and gazes upon it. As he doesn’t speak we goes out quietly. Then I remembers I hasn’t paid for my shave. So I goes back just in time to hear ’im say:

‘“An arrow—an arrow from the blind god’s bow at last!”

‘I says nothing, but puts down my penny and comes away on tiptoe.

‘Well, sir, that puzzles me. And I asks my darter the school-mistress what he meant. All I can say is, sir, if that little god as she telled me of did shoot one o’ his arrows at Mr. Harris, he must ha’ got him right in the wes’cot. For from that moment he were a changed man.

‘He were properly in love and no mistake! He worn’t a bit ashamed o’ it. He went about smiling and blushing, and very proud. The news soon got abroad, and the girls, some jeered, some laughed. Things moved along quickly. Letters passes between ’em. He ’ad his picture took, smiling, in a long black coat and a flower in his button-hole and a book in his ’and. He sends over bottles o’ scent and sweet soaps and such truck from his shop. Then, one beautiful morning in the beginning o’ October, he dresses hisself very smart, with a white wes’cot and shiny boots and new straw hat, and embarks on Dark’s lugger to go to Lundy to call on his young lady.

‘Now, living as he did on the quay, no one ’adn’t partic’ly noticed that Mr. Harris never went on the watter. Still Dark were surprised when he tells him he ’ad never yet crossed Appledore Bar. There was no wind, and Dark drops down with the ebb to the Bar, just about where we be now, and then all of a sudden Mr. Harris begins to be sea-sick. Dark carries many passengers, and ’tis a queer bit o’ watter ’twixt here and Lundy, but he says he never see anyone so bad as Mr. Harris was that day. It fair tore the inside out o’ him. He gets in such a state that Dark, seeing the job would be a long ’un for want o’ wind, puts him in his dinghy and lands him on the golf-links. Mr. Harris crawls into one o’ they bunker things and there he lay, and I did ’ear that the gentlemen played their golf right on top o’ him afore he could move. In the evening he creeps back home and goes to bed.’

‘Poor Mr. Harris!’ I broke in, ‘that was rough luck. How did he take it?’

‘Well, he didn’t give in, sir. Twice more he tried, but he never even got to the Bar. The second time they had to call the doctor to him. The doctor says his heart were weak, and it were very onwise to put such a strain on it, and he mustn’t try them tricks again. Then the doctor puts a mustard plaster to him, and goes away.

‘After that no one would take him. Steamers from ’Coombe had stopped running or ’e might ha’ gone by them. He felt hisself beaten, and his pride were broken. ’Twas a melancholly affair altogether. He thought he ’ad made a fool o’ hisself, though how a man can be stronger than his stomach I can’t see.

‘And the wust o’ all was to come. Mirandy thought she were a laughing-stock, and wouldn’t help. She wouldn’t come to him. If he wanted her, ’e must fetch her. She wouldn’t leave Lundy by herself for any man, so she said. And everyone were laughing, and talking, and taking sides.

‘He goes about neat and particular as usual, but the life and sparkle had gone out o’ him. He were looked up to, and had ’is business and his nice house, but he didn’t want ’em. He wanted Mirandy by his fireside, and her ’and in his.

‘Late one evening I was on Look-out Hill, when I hears a footstep and sees Mr. Harris. He stands staring out to sea, and presently up pops Lundy Light and twinks and goes out, and pops up and twinks and goes out again.

‘“When I sees that light,” says Mr. Harris at last, “I thinks she is beckoning me”; and from the sound o’ his voice I guessed he were near crying.

‘“It is not the fust time a queasy stomach have kept loving hearts apart,” says I, wishing to comfort him.

‘“Love against stomach,” he says very bitter, and walks away without saying good night.

‘The fine weather held well into October that year, sir; then one night there come the wust blow known in these parts. It blew hurricane hard from the nor’-west on a big spring flood. The watter come right up the streets and flooded the houses. The whole place were in an uproar. And to make things wuss, about midnight, when the storm were at its height, the lifeboat rocket was fired. A big ship were ashore on Lundy.’

‘I heard of that gale,’ I said; ‘a barge was put over the sea-wall at Instow.’

‘That’s right, sir. Well, you knows the rule about the lifeboat, fust come fust served. They that gets there fust goes. I grabs my oilies and runs. Me and Tom Jenkyns get there amongst the fust. Old Batten, the cox’un, gives us our cork jackets. ’Twas pitchy dark. There was no lights but the hurricane lamps and rope flares, and they kept blowing out. You couldn’t hear yourself speak for the wind and watter. What was done were done dumb show, and the boys and people all yelling and shouting.

‘We mans the boat. She was on her cradle and Batten were just giving the word to let go, when who should come shoving and pushing through the crowd but Mr. Harris. Tom and me was in the bows, and he spies us and clasps his ’ands.

‘“Take me, take me,” he cries, and stretches up to us.

‘Someone gives him a hoist up, and I grabs him, and pulls him in. I don’t think Cap’n Batten see’d him till it were too late, what with the wind and watter and blowing about of the lights, and general confusion. And at that very moment the boat goes down the ways like a rocket, and if Mr. Harris ’ad been half a minute later she’d ha’ been over him. And that would have been the end o’ his troubles for good and all.

‘He crawls under our seat and lays down. He had got on a little thin overcoat over his other clothes, but nothing to be no good. I throws down a spare jersey, and Tom a oilskin. Then I tosses him a bottle o’ tea and brandy as my missis always gives me.

‘“You’ve done it this time!” I yells. “You must fend for yourself now. I can’t help you.”

‘We drops down the river, for the tide was ebbing strong. And then I realises what the weight o’ wind was. I’ve see’d some queer seas in my time, but never a wuss bit o’ watter than the Bar here was that night, smooth as oil though it be now. The great wind met the great tide, and raised a hurricane sea; the boat herself couldn’t ha’ faced it if the wind hadn’t just then hauled a couple o’ points, and let us get a bit o’ sail on her. Even then I didn’t know half the time whether I were right side or wrong side up. Cold, wet, and rough work it were. But at last we gets over and away and shapes a course for Lundy.

‘Before long the wind takes off a bit, and the sea begins to moderate. ’Twas a queer blow altogether. Not a drop o’ rain to it, and all the wind’ard side o’ the hedges were crisp and black as if fire had burned ’em. Then the sky cleared and the day broke. There were the barque ashore on the Hen and Chickens Rocks, north end o’ the island. Two boats was standing by her, the Braunton and ’Coombe boats; so we rows along to the landing-place, which were sheltered, and brings up. And then me and Tom bends down and fishes up Mr. Harris.

‘You recollect, sir, he ’ad been rolling about in the watter in the bottom of the boat the better part o’ the night. I never see such a melancholly sight! He ’ad no hat, one shoe were gone, his shirt and wes’cot were half tored off. And the queasiness—! But never mind that! His gold glasses were smashed, and he ’ad a great bleeding cut over one eye from the bottle o’ tea and brandy, which had broke. I judged him pretty near gone; he were cold as a stone, and half drowned.

‘We turns to, and gives him a rub, and shoves a warm jersey on him, and Cap’n Batten, without making no remark, shoves down a bottle to us, o’ brandy. That pulls him round a bit. He looks about him and points to the island. We nods, and he slips down again.

‘Just then a boat puts off, and when she gets alongside I see Mirandy was in her. She looks as pretty as a picture, with her red cap and red cheeks, and blue eyes all of a sparkle. One o’ our chaps clears his throat and coughs, and then another till all the boat were doing it. And even Cap’n Batten, though he were high up in the Wesleyans, and ’ad ninety-eight grandchildren, winks at her.

‘Then she says, looking up very demure, and trying not to laugh:

‘“If you please, Cap’n Batten, is my brother-in-law Tom Jenkyns in the boat? And if he is may he come ashore? Mother wants to see him.”

‘“He be aboard, my dear,” says Cap’n Batten, “but I can’t let no one leave the boat. We been out all night, and we’m for home now. But you can give ’un a message. He’m down there forrard.”

‘The boat comes down and she gives the message, and then Tom says,

‘“We got something nice for you, Miry.”

‘“For me?” says Mirandy, shaking her curls. “What can that be?”

‘“We’ve brought your young man. He’m come to fetch you after all,” says Tom.

‘We pokes up Mr. Harris from the bottom of the boat, and then, sir, they two has their fust look at one another.’

‘By Jove, John!’ I said, ‘that must have been a moment! What happened?’

‘I never see’d anybody’s face, man or woman, change like Miry’s did, sir. What she had expected him to be like I don’t know; but not what he was like then, I be sure. And fust one o’ us laughs, and then another, till the boat’s crew were busting their sides. Mr. Harris draws hisself together, and looks at us in that blinky, half-puzzled way, and fust one chap looks shamed and stops, and then another, till there was silence. Then he looks down again at Mirandy, and she laughs and gets red, and a funny look, pitiful like, comes into her face, and she gets scarlet red, and stretches out her arms. We lifts him down, and she helps ’im into her boat, and she wipes the blood from his face, and he puts his arm round her, for I reckon he’d ’ad about enough o’ it. Then the boy rows them ashore, and we watches her ’elping him up the rocks, till we loses sight o’ them. And then, sir, we sets sail for home.

‘And that be the way, sir, that Mr. Harris come to Lundy Island for his wife. And I reckon he deserved her! Don’t you think so, sir?’

‘He did,’ I said warmly, ‘if ever a man did. Many a man has dared a lot for the sake of a girl, but I think Mr. Harris has earned a place among the bravest of them. He might well have died that night, and he must have known the lifeboat wouldn’t put back for him.’

‘Yes, sir. He did, o’ course. It were kill or cure, and he knowed it. I reckon he felt ’twere the only way to get there, so there it was! But ’twas all right. He stayed to Lundy, and Parson Heaven, who owned the island then, married them. And that’s the way Mr. Harris got his bride, sir.’

‘But hold on,’ I said; ‘that’s not all the yarn. How did he get back again?’

‘I’ll tell you how he brought her ’ome, sir, if you pleases. The tide and the yarn will about finish together.

‘Well, the fame o’ Mr. Harris soon spread abroad, and all were anxious to welcome him ’ome. The women forgave him, and spoke well o’ him, and were pleased he ’ad got Miry for his wife at last. The day Dark went over, chartered special, to fetch the happy pair home, Appledore were fair a-buzz. Dark, he puts a new suit o’ sails on the lugger, and when he gets to Lundy and ships Mr. and Mrs. Harris he rigs up every bit o’ bunting he can lay hands on. And home he comes booming with a nice soft breeze. Seventeen o’ our ketches and two small barques was on the Bar that evening, waiting for the tide, and when they see the lugger coming, all dressed and glorious, they cheers, and gives her the road, and falls in behind. Then the lugger reaches the sand-barges, and they cheers and falls in behind too. And further up the river she finds the town band on a barge, and the little rowing and sailing boats all come out to shout and welcome the bride and bridegroom home.

‘So up they comes. Up the river with a swingeing flood tide, and a fair breeze and a bright sky, and all shining and sparkling. The old walls and slips and yards was crowded, and everyone cheered and waved. The Vicar he started the bells, and hoists the flag on the church tower. ’Twas a grand and wonderful sight.

‘Fust comes the lugger, with Dark and his mate keeping well out o’ sight, and Mr. and Mrs. Harris standing well forrard so that all might see. And as they come Mr. Harris takes off his tall hat and bows and waves, this way and that way, while his bald head and new glasses shines in the sun. And Mrs. Harris, who ’ad got her wedding clothes sent over from ’Coombe, furls her white parasol, and bows that way and this way, very dignified, from the hips like. Then comes the band a-banging away, and then the little row-boats and sailing boats, and then the barges and ketches and trawlers, and two barques, and all shouting and cheering. And what was best o’ all, sir,’ said old John, tapping my knee in his earnestness, ‘there were no nasty steamers with their smeech and noise. ’Twas all good sails, sweet and pleasant.

‘Well, Dark brings to, and drops anchor off the quay. Cap’n Batten goes off with his gig, me bein’ one o’ the crew. We brings Mr. and Mrs. Harris ashore, and they lands on the quay. The mob form a lane, and Mr. Harris leads his wife along it. Outside his ’ouse he stops, and waves his ’at again, and bows and smiles, and then puts his arm round Mrs. Harris and kisses her afore everyone. Then he opens the door, and takes her in, and shuts it.

‘And that, sir, is how Mr. Harris brought his wife to Appledore.’

The old man paused and sighed. ‘It were a brave sight,’ he said. ‘Mr. Harris is up for the Council now. He says ’twill be the proudest day o’ his life if he gets put in. H’m wrong there. His proudest day were when he brought his wife home to Appledore.’

‘But what about the queasiness coming home?’ I demanded, ‘and why didn’t—’ but my questions were only partially asked. A shiver came over the shining water; a myriad trickles and rivulets spread themselves over the great mass of sand that lay exposed to our right hand. The tide had turned.

‘Get your rod, sir; they won’t be long now. Watch the gulls! The queasiness? Oh, that never come back. The doing in the lifeboat were kill or cure, and it cured him. Anyway, he never ’ad no more o’ it. He—but look there, sir! There’s the bass. My yarn’s spun just in time.’

I flicked the blue-and-white minnow free of the rod. Old John knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and grasped the oars. For the rest of the morning Perca Labrax held the stage.

W. H. Adams.