He was the Assyrian, to come down like a wolf on the fold. The Bodger sat bolt upright, and at once felt a violent pang in his temples. Seeing Jimmy Forster-Jones off the night before had been an arduous business. None of them, The Bodger conceded now, were as young as they were. And talking of the young, it was time for The Bodger to be up and about. Even now the little woolly lambs were assembling. The Bodger put on old sailing trousers, and an old submarine frock, and went outside.It was just after six o’clock, on a summer morning at Dartmouth. The harbour was hidden in a pearly mist which came lapping up the hill as far as the edge of the parade ground, so that the flagstaff seemed to be rising directly out of a foaming mysterious sea. Sounds of town and harbour in the early morning floated up through the mist, their impact and meanings blurred and filtered. The hard ground underfoot was damp, there was dew on the grass, and somewhere a lark was singing. It was summer at Dartmouth, and a moment just out of The Bodger’s memories.
