This decent common-place dwelling was not what I had expected.

The man might be the bald archaeologist of that horrible moorland farm, or he might not.

He was exactly the kind of satisfied old bird you will find in every suburb and every holiday place.

If you wanted a type of the perfectly harmless person you would probably pitch on that.
But after lunch, as I sat in the hotel porch, I perked up, for I saw the thing I had hoped for and had dreaded to miss.

A yacht came up from the south and dropped anchor pretty well opposite the Ruff.