We had started at noon, and now the hands of our watches are nearing four. We are miles and miles away from the shore, and can see on our right the town of Herne Bay and a distant view of the Reculvers. In our rear is Whitstable, with its shipbuilding yards and miniature residential castle. Our keen sea-air-created appetites are beginning to be appeased. It is the time for conversation.

I surmise.

replies our host.

I am comforted at this piece of intelligence, considering the sinister rumours that have recently been flying about.

Then we pass a boat that seems to be at the farthest end of the oyster beds.

says our host.

And now the sun is setting, and we are going home. We hear anecdotes about the five-fingers-how these pests of the ocean cling round oysters and clean them out. The process takes years to accomplish, but they manage the feat at last.

says our host, who has been showing us the suckers of these in miniature. In calling them octopi I beg to be allowed to forget my Latin, and the number of the creatures' feet.

We talk oyster-shop as we drift along until one of us asks if Wright, the low comedian, did not die at Herne Bay ?

returns another of us, who is better informed;