It was Celeste’s idea. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward. Spurling, drily. As usual Brendon lit the candles, and Sydney dragged out the spiritlamp and set it going.
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