ogs ANGEL PAVEMENT

a rocket, scattering a multi-coloured host of vague bat
rich associations, a glittering jumble of history and non-
sense and poetry, Dick Whittington and galleons, Mus-
covy and Cathay, East Indiamen, the doldrums far away,
and the Pool of London, lapping here only a stone's
throw from the shops and offices and buses.

She had arrived now at the foot of a gangway that
came down steeply from the rusty side of the Lemmala.
She looked up, hesitating. Somebody was calling. It was
Mr. Golspie above, and he was waving her up. When
she reached the head of the gangway he was there, wait-
ing for her.

"We've a couple of hours at least before she moves/*
he explained, piloting her along the deck, then up a
short flight of stairs to the deck above, "but I shan't keep
you so long, y'know. Awkward if she moved off and you
were still aboard, eh? Have to take a trip then, eh?"

"I don't know that I'd mind very much/' she told him,
looking about her on the upper deck. "It would be
rather amusing."

"Oh, you wouldn't have a bad time at all, so long as
you weren't seasick. These fellows here would make a
great fuss of you, I can tell you."

"Well, that would be rather a nice change/'

"Would it now?" He grinned. "Well, we won't kid-
nap you this time. We'll go in here." And he led the
way into a little saloon, quite neat and cheerful. On the
table, which was covered with a hideously bright cloth,
were some cigars, a mysterious tall bottle of a shape she
had never seen before, and several small glasses. Some
newspapers and illustrated papers, printed in fantastic
characters, were scattered about, and these helped more
than anything else, unless it was the tall bottle, to make