Broadstairs leads the way. He is upright and smart on every bearing. He is gaff-rigged with an iron keel.

To consult with Broadstairs is to discover a beneficent uncle. To engage him awakens a mighty foe. His letterhead crowns only solemn undertakings. His monogram makes most weighty the deed.

He is sincere in every syllable. So he will spare you the details. You will be unable to recall exactly what was promised. And when he gives his Word, his Word comes not with a word. The Word of Broadstairs is a nod. An affirming smile. An intoxicating handshake.

And now, as he strides up St Mary's towards the Dogpole, he radiates aureolar illocutionary assurance.

Appleby becomes quickly frustrated in wanting to explore the shops. Chalgrove, rather than enjoy his surroundings, is thinking ahead to the crux. If they follow the river, they can loop back in time for the train.

In order to keep his place at the head of the flotilla, Broadstairs needs to call out a heading. Shall he tack upwind to the first mark? Or gybe and call it a day.