But before we were done with the Maidstone district my friend found that we were as well clad, if not better, than the average hopper.

Some of the bunches of rags we chanced upon were marvellous.
"The tide is out," called a gypsy-looking woman to her mates, as we came up a long row of bins into which the pickers were stripping the hops.
"Do you twig ?" Bert whispered.

"She's on to you." I twigged.

And it must be confessed the figure was an apt one.

When the tide is out boats are left on the beach and do not sail, and a sailor, when the tide is out, does not sail either.