as he surveyed the man's huge form. "But
I think Captain Barker might object to that. You'd be of more use on
deck, in spite of--"

He paused, but his glance at the iron hook had not escaped Bulger's
observant eye.

"Spite of the curlin' tongs, you'd say. Bless you, spit it out; I en't
tender in my feelin's."

"Besides," added Desmond, "I shall probably make use of the boy who has
been attending to me at the Goat and Compasses--a clever little black boy
of Mr. Diggle's."

"Black boys be hanged! I never knowed a Sambo as was any use on board
ship. They howls when they're sick, and they're allers sick, and never
larns to tell a marlinspike from a belayin' pin."

"But Scipio isn't one of that sort. He's never sick, Mr. Diggle says;
they've been several voyages together, and Scipio knows a ship from stem
to stern."

"Scipio, which his name is? Uncommon name, that."

There was a new tone in Bulger's voice, and he gave Desmond a keen and,
as it seemed, a troubled look.

"Yes, it is strange," replied the boy, vaguely aware of the change of
manner. "But Mr. Diggle has ways of his own."

"This Mr. Diggle, now; I may be wrong, but I should say--yes, he's short,
with bow legs and a wart on his cheek?"

"No, no; you must be thinking of some one else. He is tall, rather a
well-looking man; he hasn't a wart, but there is a scar on his brow,
something like yours."

"Ah, I know they sort; a fightin' sort o' feller, with a voice
like--which I say, like a nine pounder?"

"Well, not exactly; he speaks rather quietly; he is well educated, too,
to judge by the Latin he quotes."

"Sure now, a scholard. Myself, I never had no book larnin' to speak of;
never got no further than pothooks an' hangers!"

He laughed as he lifted his hook. But he seemed to be disinclined for
further conversation. He buried his face in his tankard, and when he had
taken a long pull, set the vessel on the table and stared at it with a
preoccupied air. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of Desmond. The
other men were talking among themselves, and Desmond, having by this time
finished his mug of beer, rose to go on his way.

"Goodby, Mr. Bulger," he said; "we shall meet again next Wednesday."

"Ay, ay, sir," returned the man.

He looked long after the boy as he walked away.

"Supercargo!" he muttered. "Diggle! I may be wrong, but--"

Desmond had come through Southwark and across Clapham and Wimbledon
Common, thus approaching the Wa