'G'day,' he said.
'Dirty, ain't it?'
'Good afternoon,' I said.
'No. I'm afraid it's not very nice weather.'
He watched me with interest, smiling all the while.
'Diggin' forshell,' he said.
'No shell here.
Been diggin' since forenoon.'
'Oh,' I said,
'I'm sorry you can't find any.'
'That's right,' he said, 'no shell here.'
'Come on, Jasper,' I said, 'it's getting late.
Come on, old boy.'
But Jasper was in an infuriating mood. Perhaps the wind and the sea had gone to his head, for he backed away from me, barking stupidly, and began racing round the beach after nothing at all.
I saw he would never follow me, and I had no lead.
I turned to the man, who had bent down again to his futile digging.
'Have you got any string?' I said.
'Eh?' he said.
'Have you got any string?' I repeated.
'No shell here,' he said, shaking his head. 'Been diggin' since forenoon.'
He nodded his head at me, and wiped his pale blue watery eyes.
'I want something to tie the dog,' I said. 'He won't follow me.'
'Eh?' he said. And he smiled his poor idiot's smile.
'All right,' I said; 'it doesn't matter.'
He looked at me uncertainly, and then leant forward, and poked me in the chest.
'I know that dog,' he said; 'he comes fro' the house.'
'Yes,' I said. 'I want him to come back with me now.'
'He's not yourn,' he said.
'He's Mr de Winter's dog,' I said gently.
'I want to take him back to the house.'
'Eh?' he said.
I called Jasper once more, but he was chasing a feather blown by the wind.
I wondered if there was any string in the boat-house, and I walked up the beach towards it.
There must have been a garden once, but now the grass was long and overgrown, crowded with nettles.
The windows were boarded up.
No doubt the door was locked, and I lifted the latch without much hope.
To my surprise it opened after the first stiffness, and I went inside, bending my head because of the low door.
I expected to find the usual boat store, dirty and dusty with disuse, ropes and blocks and oars upon the floor.
The dust was there, and the dirt too in places, but there were no ropes or blocks.
The room was furnished, and ran the whole length of the cottage.
There was a desk in the corner, a table, and chairs, and a bed-sofa pushed against the wall.
There was a dresser too, with cups and plates. Bookshelves, the books inside them, and models of ships standing on the top of the shelves.
For a moment I thought it must be inhabited — perhaps the poor man on the beach lived here — but I looked around me again and saw no sign of recent occupation.
That rusted grate knew no fire, this dusty floor no footsteps, and the china there on the dresser was blue-spotted with the damp.
There was a queer musty smell about the place.
Cobwebs spun threads upon the ships' models, making their own ghostly rigging.
No one lived here.
No one came here.
The door had creaked on its hinges when I opened it.
The rain pattered on the roof with a hollow sound, and tapped upon the boarded windows.