The barman, who, as Ricky was to learn, was called Bob Maistre, was the landlord of the Cod-and-Bottle. He served Ricky’s pint of bitter with a flourish.

There was an empty chair in the corner and Ricky made his way to it. From here he was able to maintain the sensation of being an onlooker.

A group of dart players finished their game and moved over to the bar, revealing to Ricky’s unenthusiastic gaze Sydney Jones, the painter, slumped at a table in a far corner of the room with his drink before him. Ricky looked away quickly, hoping that he had not been spotted.

A group of fresh arrivals came between them: fishermen, by their conversation. Ferrant detached himself from the bar and lounged over to them. There followed a jumble of talk, most of it incomprehensible. Ricky was to learn that the remnants of a patois that had grown out of a Norman dialect, itself long vanished, could still be heard among the older islanders.

Ferrant left the group and strolled over to Ricky.

“Evening, Mr. Alleyn,” he said. “Getting to know us?”

“Hoping to, Mr. Ferrant,” Ricky said.

“Quiet enough for you?”

“That’s what I like.”

“Fancy that now, what you like, eh?”

His manner was half bantering, half indifferent. He stayed a minute or so longer, took one or two showy pulls at his beer, said, “Enjoy yourself, then,” turned and came face to face with Mr. Sydney Jones.

“Look what’s come up in my catch,” he said. He fetched Mr. Jones a shattering clap on the back and returned to his friends.

Mr. Jones evidently eschewed all conventional civilities. He sat down at the table, extended his legs, and seemed to gaze at nothing in particular. A shout of laughter greeted Ferrant’s return to the bar and drowned any observation that, by a movement of his head, Mr. Jones would seem to have offered.