was really fakir-like and impressive. I began to wonder what could

be the associations of that sort of man, his "milieu," his private
connections, his views, his morality, his friends, and even his

wife - when to my surprise he opened a conversation in a deep,
muttering voice.

I must say that since he had learned from somebody that I was a
writer of stories he had been acknowledging my existence by means

of some vague growls in the morning.
He was essentially a taciturn man. There was an effect of rudeness

in his fragmentary sentences. It was some time before I discovered
that what he would be at was the process by which stories - stories

for periodicals - were produced.
What could one say to a fellow like that? But I was bored to

death; the weather continued impossible; and I resolved to be
amiable.

"And so you make these tales up on your own. How do they ever come
into your head?" he rumbled.

I explained that one generally got a hint for a tale.
"What sort of hint?"

"Well, for instance," I said, "I got myself rowed out to the rocks
the other day. My boatman told me of the wreck on these rocks

nearly twenty years ago. That could be used as a hint for a mainly
descriptive bit of story with some such title as 'In the Channel,'

for instance."
It was then that he flew out at the boatmen and the summer visitors

who listen to their tales. Without moving a muscle of his face he
emitted a powerful "Rot," from somewhere out of the depths of his

chest, and went on in his hoarse, fragmentary mumble. "Stare at
the silly rocks - nod their silly heads [the visitors, I presume].

What do they think a man is - blown-out paper bag or what? - go off
pop like that when he's hit - Damn silly yarn - Hint indeed! . . .

A lie?"
You must imagine this statuesque ruffian enhaloed in the black rim

of his hat, letting all this out as an old dog growls sometimes,
with his head up and staring-away eyes.

"Indeed!" I exclaimed. "Well, but even if untrue it IS a hint,
enabling me to see these rocks, this gale they speak of, the heavy

seas, etc., etc., in relation to mankind. The struggle against
natural forces and the effect of the issue on at least one, say,

exalted - "
He interrupted me by an aggressive -

"Would truth be any good to you?"
"I shouldn't like to say," I answered, cautiously. "It's said that

truth is stranger than fiction."
"Who says that?" he mouthed.

"Oh! Nobody in particular."
I turned to the window; for the contemptuous" target="_blank" title="a.蔑视的；傲慢的">contemptuousbeggar was oppressive

to look at, with his immovable arm on the table. I suppose my
unceremonious manner provoked him to a comparatively long speech.

"Did you ever see such a silly lot of rocks? Like plums in a slice
of cold pudding."

I was looking at them - an acre or more of black dots scattered on
the steel-grey shades of the level sea, under the uniform gossamer

grey mist with a formless brighter patch in one place - the veiled
whiteness of the cliff coming through, like a diffused, mysterious

radiance. It was a delicate and wonderful picture, something
expressive, suggestive, and desolate, a symphony in grey and black

- a Whistler. But the next thing said by the voice behind me made
me turn round. It growled out contempt for all associated notions

of roaring seas with conciseenergy, then went on -
"I - no such foolishness - looking at the rocks out there - more

likely call to mind an office - I used to look in sometimes at one
time - office in London - one of them small streets behind Cannon

Street Station. . . "
He was very deliberate; not jerky, only fragmentary; at times

profane.
"That's a rather remoteconnection," I observed, approaching him.

"Connection? To Hades with your connections. It was an accident."
"Still," I said, "an accident has its backward and forward

connections, which, if they could be set forth - "
Without moving he seemed to lend an attentive ear.

"Aye! Set forth. That's perhaps what you could do. Couldn't you
now? There's no sea life in this connection. But you can put it

in out of your head - if you like."
"Yes. I could, if necessary," I said. "Sometimes it pays to put

in a lot out of one's head, and sometimes it doesn't. I mean that
the story isn't worth it. Everything's in that."

It amused me to talk to him like this. He reflected audibly that
he guessed story-writers were out after money like the rest of the

world which had to live by its wits: and that it was extraordinary
how far people who were out after money would go. . . Some of them.

Then he made a sally against sea life. Silly sort of life, he
called it. No opportunities, no experience, no variety, nothing.

Some fine men came out of it - he admitted - but no more chance in
the world if put to it than fly. Kids. So Captain Harry Dunbar.

Good sailor. Great name as a skipper. Big man; short side-
whiskers going grey, fine face, loud voice. A good fellow, but no

more up to people's tricks than a baby.
"That's the captain of the Sagamore you're talking about," I said,

confidently.
After a low, scornful "Of course" he seemed now to hold on the wall

with his fixed stare the vision of that city office, "at the back
of Cannon Street Station," while he growled and mouthed a

fragmentary description, jerking his chin up now and then, as if
angry.

It was, according to his account, a modest place of business, not
shady in any sense, but out of the way, in a small street now

rebuilt from end to end. "Seven doors from the Cheshire Cat public
house under the railway bridge. I used to take my lunch there when

my business called me to the city. Cloete would come in to have
his chop and make the girl laugh. No need to talk much, either,

for that. Nothing but the way he would twinkle his spectacles on
you and give a twitch of his thick mouth was enough to start you

off before he began one of his little tales. Funny fellow, Cloete.
C-l-o-e-t-e - Cloete."

"What was he - a Dutchman?" I asked, not seeing in the least what
all this had to do with the Westport boatmen and the Westport

summer visitors and this extraordinary old fellow's irritable view
of them as liars and fools. "Devil knows," he grunted, his eyes on

the wall as if not to miss a single movement of a cinematograph
picture. "Spoke nothing but English, anyway. First I saw him -

comes off a ship in dock from the States - passenger. Asks me for
a small hotel near by. Wanted to be quiet and have a look round

for a few days. I took him to a place - friend of mine. . . Next
time - in the City - Hallo! You're very obliging - have a drink.

Talks plenty about himself. Been years in the States. All sorts
of business all over the place. With some patent medicine people,

too. Travels. Writes advertisements and all that. Tells me funny
stories. Tall, loose-limbed fellow. Black hair up on end, like a

brush; long face, long legs, long arms, twinkle in his specs,
jocular way of speaking - in a low voice. . . See that?"

I nodded, but he was not looking at me.
"Never laughed so much in my life. The beggar - would make you

laugh telling you how he skinned his own father. He was up to
that, too. A man who's been in the patent-medicine trade will be