Your lamented mother, whose loss I shall ever deplore, perceived my passion and encouraged it. You don’t understand. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. But if he starts a long jog, his name is Dennis. It was a dark mysterious place, and what it was used for no one exactly knew; but it was called by those who had seen it the Well Hole. After much clapping, they started.
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