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Chapter 21 — Mr. Bedford at Littlestone
Itwasaneastshoreanyhow,andIhadseenEuropebeforeIdropped.
Iheardfootstepscrunchinginthesand,andalittleround-faced,friendly-lookingmaninflannels,withabathingtowelwrappedabouthisshoulders,andhisbathingdressoverhisarm,appearedupthebeach.IknewinstantlythatImustbeinEngland.Hewasstaringmostintentlyatthesphereandme.Headvancedstaring.IdaresayIlookedaferocioussavageenough—dirty,unkempt,toanindescribabledegree;butitdidnotoccurtomeatthetime.Hestoppedatadistanceoftwentyyards.“Hul-lo,myman!”hesaiddoubtfully.
“Hulloyourself!”saidI.
Headvanced,reassuredbythat.“Whatonearthisthatthing?”heasked.
“CanyoutellmewhereIam?”Iasked.
“That’sLittlestone,”hesaid,pointingtothehouses;“andthat’sDungeness!Haveyoujustlanded?What’sthatthingyou’vegot?Somesortofmachine?”
“Yes.”
“Haveyoufloatedashore?Haveyoubeenwreckedorsomething?Whatisit?”
Imeditatedswiftly.Imadeanestimateofthelittleman’sappearanceashedrewnearer.“ByJove!”hesaid,“you’vehadatimeofit!Ithoughtyou—Well—Wherewereyoucastaway?Isthatthingasortoffloatingthingforsavinglife?”
Idecidedtotakethatlineforthepresent.Imadeafewvagueaffirmatives.“Iwanthelp,”Isaidhoarsely.“Iwanttogetsomestuffupthebeach—stuffIcan’tverywellleaveabout.”Ibecameawareofthreeotherpleasant-lookingyoungmenwithtowels,blazers,andstrawhats,comingdownthesandstowardsme.
