g, and
one started forward at the sight of Jeffreys, hesitated a moment, and
then put forth his hand.

"Little Timothy! or tropic suns have blinded my eyes," he cried.

Jeffreys scanned the speaker's weather-stained face.

"It's not Paignton Rob, surely?"

"It's all that's left of him, Timothy."

"Thou art shrunken."

"And lopped, brother, lopped."

"Spain?"

"Inquisition."

"Indies?"

"Vera Cruz. Shall I introduce my friends? We are nigh broken, and not
too proud to accept a little charity from a Devon man. Thy heart used
not to beat in a niggard's bosom."

"It has not changed lodgings, Rob. Wilt know my friend here? This is
Master Morgan of Gloucestershire--a good west countrie man, to say the
least. He has had his cut at King Philip, and is a friend of our
gallant Raleigh."

"Then I'm open to love him," cried Paignton Rob, holding out a hand
that had lost a thumb. "'Tis a poor grip that fingers can give, Master
Morgan," he said apologetically. "The monks of Vera Cruz can best tell
thee where little 'thumbkin' is."

Johnnie took the proffered hand. "I am proud to know one who has
sailed the Western Ocean," he replied.

The mariner called up his two friends, who proved thumbless like
himself.

"Nick Johnson, and Ned his brother, both of Plymouth town. Master
Timothy Jeffreys, henchman to Sir Walter Raleigh, and Master Morgan,
friend."

Hand-clasps went round. Jeffreys peeped into the purse that hung at
his girdle.

"Here is the price of a few flagons of sack, friends. Have you a fancy
for any particular tavern?"

"All taverns are alike to thirsty men," answered Rob. "Lead us where
thou wilt; we'll speak our thanks under one signboard as well as
another."

"What say you then to the 'Silver Lion' in Dowgate?"

"'Tis a good house."

The party left the cathedral by the western door, went south through
the churchyard, and out at the gate that led riverwards. Thence they
strode down a steep street towards the Dowgate quay, halting at a
gabled and timbered tavern within a stone's throw of the water. Down a
flight of three steps they went into the sanded parlour, and seated
themselves round a corner table. The drawer came bustling up with a
"What do ye drink, my masters?"

"Bring us five flagons of sack," said Timothy.

"And a crust for our teeth," whispered Paignton Rob. The ears of the
serving-man were keen, "Shall it be a venison pie?" he said.

"A venison pie," broke in