Bolitho smiled, glad Dancer had come with him. His home was in London, and quite different in a thousand ways from his own. Whereas the Bolithos had been sea officers for generations, Dancer's father was a rich City of London tea merchant. But if their worlds were miles apart, Bolitho felt towards Martyn Dancer as he would to a brother.

When Gorgon had anchored, and the mail had been brought aboard, Dancer had discovered that his parents were abroad. He had immediately suggested that Bolitho should keep him company in London, but Gorgon's first lieutenant, the ever-watchful Mr Verling, had said icily, `I should think not indeed.

Alone in that city, your father would see me damned for it!,'

So Dancer had readily accepted Bolitho's invitation. Bolitho was secretly glad. And he was eager to see his family again, for them to see him, and the change that fourteen months of hard service had offered him. Like his friend, he was leaner, if that were possible, more confident, and above all grateful to have survived both storm and shot.

The coach guard touched his hat and took the coins which Bolitho thrust into his gloved fist.

`Don't 'ee fear, zur. I'll tell the innkeeper to send your chests up to the house directly.' He jerked his thumb at the inn windows, already glowing with lantern light. `Now I'll join me fellow travellers for an hour, then on to Penzance.' He walked away, adding, `Good luck to 'ee, young gennlemen.'

Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. So many Bolithos had mounted or dismounted from coaches here. On their way to far-off places, returning from one ship or another. Some never came back at all.

He threw his blue boat-cloak round his shoulders and said, `We'll walk. Get the blood alive again, eh?

Dancer nodded, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. Like Bolitho, he was very tanned, and was still unable to accept the violent change of weather and climate after a year in and around the African coastline.