A melancholy, forsaken place, from which, at low tide, you can walk across the mud-flats to Lampit, with a pleasing chance of being sucked under by quicksands.

Abram Sclanders' unhappy half-witted son haunted this boat-house, it seemed, storing his shrimping nets there, any other things as well, a venerable magpie's hoard of scraps and lumber; using it as a run-hole, too, when the other lads hunted and tormented him according to their healthy, brutal youthful way.
-- A regular joss-house, he'd made of it.

And set up in one corner, white and ghostly--making you stare a minute when you first came inside--a ship's figure-head, a three-foot odd Britannia, pudding-basin bosomed and eagle-featured, with castellated headgear, clasping a trident in her hand.

She, as presiding deity and-- "In front of her," Faircloth said, his chin still in his hands and eyes gazing away to the Bar--"earth and pebbles banked up into a flat-topped mound, upon which stood your shoes filled with sprays of hedge fruit and yellow button-chrysanthemums--stolen too, I suppose, from one of the gardens at Lampit.

They grow freely there.