Nor was he to be blamed. When we stopped in a tavern the publican eyed
us gingerly, nor did his demeanour brighten till we showed him the colour
of our cash. The natives along the coast were all dubious; and "bean-
feasters" from London, dashing past in coaches, cheered and jeered and
shouted insulting things after us. 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. My seafaring togs and my
presence in the hop field proclaimed that I was a seaman without a ship,
a man on the beach, and very like a craft at low water.
"Can yer give us a job, governor?" Bert asked the bailiff, a kindly faced
and elderly man who was very busy.
His "No" was decisively uttered; but Bert clung on and followed him
about, and I followed after, pretty well all over the field.
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