SPOET IN THE COAST RANGE 

 MOUNTAINS. 



Shoetly after the events recorded in the last chapter, I 

 went down one fine morning to have my usual morning 

 dip at North Beach. I always patronised an old English- 

 man named Ryles, who had added a sort of bathing 

 house to his fishing hut, and earned an extra ' bit^ or 

 two in this manner. He used to have a very good 

 amount of custom at one time, till he got played a 

 shamefully smart trick by an opposition Yankee, who 

 built another shanty half a mile off down the beach. 

 The story is worth telling. This Yankee saw an 

 Italian fishing boat coming down the entrance to the 

 harbour, with something very heavy towing over the 

 stern. He rowed out to the boat, and found they had 

 got quite a respectably-sized shark. " 1^11 buy that 'ere 

 shark ; how much ?" said Yank, struck with a happy 

 thought. Ten dollars was the price, and the Yankee 

 took it up town and exhibited it as " a real vicious worst 

 kind of man-eating shark, caught just opposite Ryles's 

 bathing-place." Of course no one went to poor Ryles 

 after that. Well, this particular morning he had got 

 such a cartload of ducks all over his hut that it almost 

 took my breath away to look at them. Old Dpu at Poole 

 would have stared himself. ^' Where on earth did you 

 shoot them, Ryles?'' '" Oh, up the river, sir; there's 

 millions ; why if Pd had a barrel (punt-gun), I could 



