A carriage Stopped short in the ray of candlelight that was fitfully and feebly capering on the windy blackness outside the open workshop of Crickledon, the carpenter, fronting the sea-beach.

Mr.Tinnnan's house was inquired for.

Crickledon left off planing; at half-sprawl over the board, he bawled out, "Turn to the right; right ahead; can't mistake it." He nodded to one of the cronies intent on watching his labours: "Not unless they mean to be bait for whiting-pout.

Who's that for Tinman, I wonder ?" The speculations of Crickledon's friends were lost in the scream of the plane.
One cast an eye through the door and observed that the carriage was there still.

"Gentleman's got out and walked," said Crickledon.