Buried for Pleasure. Edmund Crispin

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      ‘Look ’ere, see that ship at anchor, see? Now, if ’er was moored fore and aft, you wouldn’t be able to see which way the bloody wind was blowing. As ’tis, she’s facin’ out t’ards sea. An’ that means—’

      ‘But she is moored aft. You can see it. You can see the buoy.’

      ‘That’s no buoy, Fred, that’s just a drop o’ bloody paint.’

      ‘I’m tellin’ ’ee ’tes a buoy.’

      ‘Well, look ’ere now, if that brig’s close-’auled, that means…’

      The meal over, Fen settled down with some beer and a detective story, becoming so engrossed that it was not until nearly closing-time that a sudden outbreak of abnormal excitement in the bar restored him to consciousness of his surroundings. Reluctantly abandoning the heroine to the suspicious circumstances in which she had foolishly contrived to entangle herself, he went to see what was happening.