I heard that Murglebed is a nice quiet little spot.

You will go down and inspect it for me and bring back a report." He went blithe and light-hearted, though he thought me insane; he returned with the air of a serving-man who, expecting to find a well-equipped pantry, had wandered into a charnel house.
"It's an awful place, sir.

It's sixteen miles from a railway station.
The shore is a mud flat.

There's no hotel, and the inhabitants are like cannibals." "I start for Murglebed-on-Sea to-morrow," said I.
Rogers started at me.

His loose mouth quivered like that of a child preparing to cry.
"We can't possibly stay there, sir," he remonstrated.
"_We_ are not going to try," I retorted.