It was ten o'clock at night, the hour when men may cull the bloom of
sleep. Already the moon rode in a serene heaven, and, looking in at
the Club window, saw the Admiral and Lawyer Pellow--"_male feriatos
Troas_"--busy with a mild game of _ecarte_. There were not enough to
make up a loo to-night, for Sam and Mr. Moggridge were absent, and
so--more unaccountably--was the Honourable Frederic. The moon was
silent, and only she, peering through the blinds of "The Bower,"
could see Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys hastily packing their boxes; or
beneath the ladder, by the Admiral's quay-door, a figure stealthily
unmooring the Admiral's boat.
To say that Sam Buzza did not relish his task were but feebly to
paint his feelings, as, with the paddles under one arm, and the
thole-pins in his pocket, he crept down the ladder and pushed off.
Never before had the plash of oars seemed so searching a sound; never
had the harbour been so crowded with vessels; and as for buoys, small
craft, and floating logs, they bumped against his boat at every
stroke. The moon, too, dogged him with persistent malice, or why was
it that he rode always in a pool of light? The ships' lamps tracked
him as so many eyes. He carried a bull's-eye lantern in the bottom
of his boat, and the smell of its oil and heated varnish seemed to
smell aloud to Heaven.
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