That two days later I should be found pacing the deck of the Flushing steamer with a ticket for Hamburg in my pocket may seem a strange result, yet not so strange if you have divined my state of mind. You will guess, at any rate, that I was armed with the conviction that I was doing an act of obscure penance¹, rumours² of which might call attention to my lot and perhaps awaken³ remorse⁴ in the right quarter, while it left me free to enjoy myself unobtrusively in the remote event of enjoyment⁵ being possible.  
The fact was that, at breakfast on the morning after the arrival of the letter, I had still found that inexplicable⁶ lightening which I mentioned before, and strong enough to warrant a revival⁷ of the pros⁹ and cons¹⁰. An important pro⁸ which I had not thought of before was that after all it was a good-natured piece of unselfishness to join Davies; for he had spoken of the want of a pal¹², and seemed honestly to be in need of me. I almost clutched at this consideration. It was an admirable excuse, when I reached my office that day, for a resigned study of the Continental¹³ Bradshaw, and an order to Carter to unroll a great creaking wall-map of Germany and find me Flensburg. The latter labour I might have saved him, but it was good for Carter to have something to do; and his patient ignorance was amusing. With most of the map and what it suggested I was tolerably familiar, for I had not wasted my year in Germany, whatever I had done or not done since. Its people, history, progress, and future had interested me intensely, and I had still friends in Dresden and Berlin. Flensburg recalled the Danish war of ’64, and by the time Carter’s researches had ended in success I had forgotten the task set him, and was wondering whether the prospect¹⁵ of seeing something of that lovely region of Schleswig-Holstein, [See Map A] as I knew from hearsay¹⁶ that it was, was at all to be set against such an uncomfortable way of seeing it, with the season so late, the company so unattractive, and all the other drawbacks which I counted and treasured as proofs of my desperate condition, if I were to go. It needed little to decide me, and I think K——’s arrival from Switzerland, offensively sunburnt, was the finishing touch. His greeting was “Hullo, Carruthers, you here? Thought you had got away long ago. Lucky devil, though, to be going now, just in time for the best driving and the early pheasants. The heat’s been shocking out there. Carter, bring me a Bradshaw”—(an extraordinary book, Bradshaw, turned to from habit, even when least wanted, as men fondle guns and rods in the close season).
 
By lunch-time the weight of indecision had been removed, and I found myself entrusting¹⁸ Carter with a telegram to Davies, P.O., Flensburg. “Thanks; expect me 9.34 p.m. 26th”; which produced, three hours later, a reply: “Delighted; please bring a No. 3 Rippingille stove”—a perplexing and ominous¹⁹ direction, which somehow chilled me in spite of its subject matter.
 
Indeed, my resolution was continually faltering²⁰. It faltered²¹ when I turned out my gun in the evening and thought of the grouse²² it ought to have accounted for. It faltered again when I contemplated²³ the miscellaneous list of commissions, sown broadcast through Davies’s letter, to fulfil which seemed to make me a willing tool where my chosen rôle was that of an embittered²⁴ exile, or at least a condescending²⁵ ally. However, I faced the commissions manfully, after leaving the office.
 
At Lancaster’s I inquired for his gun, was received coolly, and had to pay a heavy bill, which it seemed to have incurred²⁶, before it was handed over. Having ordered the gun and No. 4’s to be sent to my chambers²⁷, I bought the Raven²⁸ mixture with that peculiar²⁹ sense of injury which the prospect of smuggling³⁰ in another’s behalf always entails³¹; and wondered where in the world Carey and Neilson’s was, a firm which Davies spoke¹¹ of as though it were as well known as the Bank of England or the Stores, instead of specialising in “rigging-screws”, whatever they might be. They sounded important, though, and it would be only polite to unearth³² them. I connected them with the “few repairs,” and awoke new misgivings³³. At the Stores I asked for a No. 3 Rippingille stove, and was confronted with a formidable and hideous³⁴ piece of ironmongery, which burned petroleum³⁵ in two capacious tanks, horribly prophetic of a smell of warm oil. I paid for this miserably³⁶, convinced of its grim efficiency, but speculating as to the domestic conditions which caused it to be sent for as an afterthought by telegram. I also asked about rigging-screws in the yachting department, but learnt that they were not kept in stock; that Carey and Neilson’s would certainly have them, and that their shop was in the Minories, in the far east, meaning a journey nearly as long as to Flensburg, and twice as tiresome³⁷. They would be shut by the time I got there, so after this exhausting round of duty I went home in a cab, omitted dressing³⁸ for dinner (an epoch³⁹ in itself), ordered a chop up from the basement kitchen, and spent the rest of the evening packing and writing, with the methodical gloom of a man setting his affairs in order for the last time.
 
The last of those airless nights passed. The astonished Withers⁴⁰ saw me breakfasting at eight, and at 9.30 I was vacantly examining rigging-screws with what wits were left me after a sulphurous ride in the underground to Aldgate. I laid great stress on the 3/8’s, and the galvanism, and took them on trust, ignorant as to their functions. For the eleven-shilling oilskins I was referred to a villainous den¹⁴ in a back street, which the shopman said they always recommended, and where a dirty and bejewelled Hebrew chaffered with me (beginning at 18s.) over two reeking⁴¹ orange slabs⁴² distantly resembling moieties⁴³ of the human figure. Their odour made me close prematurely⁴⁴ for 14s., and I hurried back (for I was due there at 11) to my office with my two disreputable brown-paper parcels, one of which made itself so noticeable in the close official air that Carter attentively⁴⁵ asked if I would like to have it sent to my chambers, and K—— was inquisitive⁴⁶ to bluntness about it and my movements. But I did not care to enlighten K——, whose comments I knew would be provokingly envious⁴⁷ or wounding to my pride in some way.
 
I remembered, later on, the prismatic compass, and wired to the Minories to have one sent at once, feeling rather relieved that I was not present there to be cross-examined as to size and make. The reply was, “Not stocked; try surveying-instrument maker”—a reply both puzzling and reassuring⁴⁸, for Davies’s request for a compass had given me more uneasiness than anything, while, to find that what he wanted turned out to be a surveying-instrument, was a no less perplexing discovery. That day I made my last précis and handed over my schedules—Procrustean beds, where unwilling⁵⁰ facts were stretched and tortured—and said good-bye to my temporary chief, genial⁵¹ and lenient⁵² M——, who wished me a jolly holiday with all sincerity⁵³.
 
At seven I was watching a cab packed with my personal luggage and the collection of unwieldy and incongruous packages that my shopping had drawn⁵⁴ down on me. Two deviations⁵⁵ after that wretched prismatic compass—which I obtained in the end secondhand, faute de mieux, near Victoria, at one of those showy shops which look like jewellers’ and are really pawnbrokers’—nearly caused me to miss my train. But at 8.30 I had shaken off the dust of London from my feet, and at 10.30 I was, as I have announced, pacing the deck of a Flushing steamer, adrift on this fatuous⁵⁶ holiday in the far Baltic.
 
An air from the west, cooled by a midday thunderstorm, followed the steamer as she slid through the calm channels of the Thames estuary⁵⁷, passed the cordon⁵⁸ of scintillating⁵⁹ lightships that watch over the sea-roads to the imperial city like pickets⁶⁰ round a sleeping army, and slipped out into the dark spaces of the North Sea. Stars were bright, summer scents⁶² from the Kent cliffs mingled⁶³ coyly with vulgar steamer-smells; the summer weather held immutably⁶⁴. Nature, for her part, seemed resolved to be no party to my penance, but to be imperturbably⁶⁵ bent⁶⁶ on shedding mild ridicule⁶⁷ over my wrongs. An irresistible⁶⁸ sense of peace and detachment, combined with that delicious physical awakening⁶⁹ that pulses through the nerve-sick townsman when city airs and bald routine are left behind him, combined to provide me, however thankless a subject, with a solid background of resignation. Stowing this safely away, I could calculate my intentions with cold egotism. If the weather held I might pass a not intolerable fortnight with Davies. When it broke up, as it was sure to, I could easily excuse myself from the pursuit of the problematical ducks; the wintry logic⁷⁰ of facts would, in any case, decide him to lay up his yacht, for he could scarcely think of sailing home at such a season. I could then take a chance lying ready of spending a few weeks in Dresden or elsewhere. I settled this programme comfortably and then turned in.
 
From Flushing eastward⁷¹ to Hamburg, then northward⁷² to Flensburg, I cut short the next day’s sultry story. Past dyke⁷³ and windmill and still canals, on to blazing stubbles and roaring towns; at the last, after dusk, through a quiet level region where the train pottered from one lazy little station to another, and at ten o’clock I found myself, stiff and stuffy⁷⁴, on the platform at Flensburg, exchanging greetings with Davies.
 
“It’s awfully⁷⁵ good of you to come.”
 
“Not at all; it’s very good of you to ask me.”
 
We were both of us ill at ease. Even in the dim gaslight he clashed on my notions of a yachtsman—no cool white ducks or neat blue serge; and where was the snowy crowned yachting cap, that precious charm that so easily converts a landsman into a dashing mariner⁷⁶? Conscious that this impressive uniform, in high perfection, was lying ready in my portmanteau, I felt oddly guilty. He wore an old Norfolk jacket, muddy brown shoes, grey flannel⁷⁷ trousers (or had they been white?), and an ordinary tweed cap. The hand he gave me was horny, and appeared to be stained with paint; the other one, which carried a parcel, had a bandage on it which would have borne renewal⁷⁸. There was an instant of mutual⁷⁹ inspection⁸⁰. I thought he gave me a shy, hurried scrutiny⁸¹ as though to test past conjectures⁸², with something of anxiety in it, and perhaps (save the mark!) a tinge⁸³ of admiration⁸⁴. The face was familiar, and yet not familiar; the pleasant blue eyes, open, clean-cut features, unintellectual forehead were the same; so were the brisk and impulsive⁸⁵ movements; there was some change; but the moment of awkward hesitation⁸⁶ was over and the light was bad; and, while strolling down the platform for my luggage, we chatted with constraint⁸⁷ about trivial things.
 
“By the way,” he suddenly said, laughing, “I’m afraid I’m not fit to be seen; but it’s so late it doesn’t matter. I’ve been painting hard all day, and just got it finished. I only hope we shall have some wind to-morrow—it’s been hopelessly calm lately. I say, you’ve brought a good deal of stuff,” he concluded, as my belongings⁸⁸ began to collect.
 
Here was a reward for my submissive exertions⁸⁹ in the far east!
 
“You gave me a good many commissions!”
 
“Oh, I didn’t mean those things,” he said, absently. “Thanks for bringing them, by the way. That’s the stove, I suppose; cartridges⁹⁰, this one, by the weight. You got the rigging-screws all right, I hope? They’re not really necessary, of course” (I nodded vacantly, and felt a little hurt); “but they’re simpler than lanyards, and you can’t get them here. It’s that portmanteau,” he said, slowly, measuring it with a doubtful eye. “Never mind! we’ll try. You couldn’t do with the Gladstone only, I suppose? You see, the dinghy—h’m, and there’s the hatchway, too”—he was lost in thought. “Anyhow, we’ll try. I’m afraid there are no cabs; but it’s quite near, and the porter’ll help.”
 
Sickening forebodings crept over me, while Davies shouldered my Gladstone and clutched at the parcels.
 
“Aren’t your men here?” I asked, faintly.
 
“Men?” He looked confused. “Oh, perhaps I ought to have told you, I never have any paid hands; it’s quite a small boat, you know—I hope you didn’t expect luxury. I’ve managed her single-handed for some time. A man would be no use, and a horrible nuisance.” He revealed these appalling⁹¹ truths with a cheerful assurance, which did nothing to hide a naïve apprehension⁹² of their effect on me. There was a check in our mobilisation.
 
“It’s rather late to go on board, isn’t it?” I said, in a wooden voice. Someone was turning out the gaslights, and the porter yawned ostentatiously. “I think I’d rather sleep at an hotel to-night.” A strained pause.
 
“Oh, of course you can do that, if you like,” said Davies, in transparent⁹³ distress⁹⁴ of mind. “But it seems hardly worth while to cart this stuff all the way to an hotel (I believe they’re all on the other side of the harbour), and back again to the boat to-morrow. She’s quite comfortable, and you’re sure to sleep well, as you’re tired.”
 
“We can leave the things here,” I argued feebly, “and walk over with my bag.”
 
“Oh, I shall have to go aboard anyhow,” he rejoined; “I never sleep on shore.”
 
He seemed to be clinging timidly, but desperately⁹⁵, to some diplomatic end. A stony⁹⁶ despair was invading me and paralys............