They had now come to the eighth hole, the tee of which was perched high like a pulpit on the sand dunes and over-looked the sea. The match was most exciting: hole after hole had been halved in brilliant sixes and sevens, the players were both on the top of their form, and in their keenness had quite banished from their minds the overshadowing anxiety. Here Major Benjy topped his ball into a clump of bents immediately in front of the tee, and when he had finished swearing at his caddie for moving on the stroke, the Padre put his iron shot on to the green.

‘A glorious day,’ he exclaimed, and, turning to pick up his clubs, gazed out seawards. The tide was low, and an immense stretch of ‘shining sands’ as in Charles Kingsley’s poem was spread in front of him. Then he gave a gasp.

‘What’s that?’ he said to Major Benjy, pointing with a shaking finger.

‘Good God,’ said Major Benjy. ‘Pick up my ball, caddie.’ They scrambled down the steep dunes and walked across the sands to where lay this object which had attracted the Padre’s attention. It was an immense kitchen table upside down with its legs in the air, wet with brine but still in perfect condition. Without doubt it was the one which they had seen two days before whirling out to sea. But now it was by itself, no ladies were sitting upon it. The Padre bared his head.

‘Shall we abandon our game, Major?’ he said. ‘We had better telephone from the Club-house to the Mayor. And I must arrange to get some men to bring the table back. It’s far too heavy for us to think of moving it.’

The news that the table had come ashore spread swiftly through Tilling, and Georgie, hearing that the Padre had directed that when it had passed the Custom House it should be brought to the Vicarage, went round there at once. It seemed almost unfeeling in this first shock of bereavement to think about tables, but it would save a great deal of bother afterwards to see to this now. The table surely belonged to Grebe.

‘I quite understand your point of view,’ he said to the Padre, ‘and of course what is found on the seashore in a general way belongs to the finder, if it’s a few oranges in a basket, because nobody knows who the real owner is. But we all know, at least we’re afraid we do, where this came from.’

The Padre was quite reasonable.

‘You mean it ought to go back to Grebe,’ he said. ‘Yes, I agree. Ah, I see it has arrived.’

They went out into the street, where a trolley, bearing the table, had just drawn up. Then a difficulty arose. It was late, and the bearers demurred to taking it all the way out to Grebe tonight and carrying it through the garden.