e man has been known on the coast since
he was a lad. Most east coast fishermen have a nickname which supersedes
their registered name, and "Posh" (or now "old Posh") was Joseph
Fletcher's.

Bill Harrison's is a cosy little beerhouse in the lower North Town. It
is called Bill Harrison's because Bill Harrison was once its landlord.
Poor Bill has left house and life for years. But the house is still
"Bill Harrison's."

Here I found Posh. At that time, little more than a year ago, I wrote of
him as "a hale, stoutly-built man of over the middle height, his round,
ruddy, clean-shaven face encircled by the fringe of iron-grey whiskers
running round from ear to ear beneath the chin. His broad shoulders were
held square, his back straight, his head poised firm and alert on a
splendid column of neck."

Alas! The description would fit Posh but poorly now.

"Yes," said he. "I was Mr. FitzGerald's partner. But I can't stop to
mardle along o' ye now. I'll meet ye when an' where ye like."

I made an appointment with him, which he failed to keep. Then another.
Then another, and another. I lay wait for him in likely places. I
stalked him. I caught stray glimpses of him in various haunts. But he
always evaded me.

I think old Mrs. Capps got tired of leaning her head out of the third-
floor window of No. 2 Chapel Street, and seeing me waiting patiently on
the doorstep expectant of Posh.

At length I cornered him (from information received) fairly and squarely
at the Magdala House, a beerhouse in Duke's Head Street, two minutes'
walk from his lodgings.

I got him on his legs and took him down Rant Score to Bill Harrison's.

"Now look here," said I. "What's the matter? You've made appointment
after appointment, and kept none of them. Why don't you wish to see me?"

Posh shuffled his feet on, the sanded bricks. He drank from the measure
of "mild beer" (twopenny), for which he will call in preference to any
other liquid.

"Tha'ss like this here, master," said he. "I ha' had enow o' folks a
comin' here an' pickin' my brains and runnin' off wi' my letters and
never givin' me so much as a sixpence."

"Oho!" I thought. "That's where the rub is."

I gave him a trifling guarantee of good faith, and his face brightened
up. Gradually I overcame his reserve, and gradually I persuaded him that
I did not seek to rob him of anything. I'm a bit of a sailor myself, and
I think a little talk of winds, shoals, seas, and