good and bad; could have told to a
penny what money he had in his pocket; knew the reason why he sought
Rob of Paignton, and a great deal of the latter worthy's past career.
Perhaps most important of all, he knew where Dan had hidden certain
Spanish papers in Plymouth, and guessed at the secret hidden in them.
He had been merry with the bluff sailor to good purpose, and he lay
awake and quietly smiling at a star that peeped in at the lattice, long
after the bibulous Dan had started snoring like a drenched hog on the
pallet beside him. Before he closed his eyes and settled himself to
sleep, he had resolved to be the sailor's companion for a day longer.
This meant an alteration of his previous plans, but the change would be
worth the making.

The next morning the two travellers were astir with the first robin,
and over breakfast Dan learned that his companion had suddenly
remembered that he ought to pay a visit to Westbury before he quitted
the neighbourhood. The Devonian knew nothing of Westbury, but was
speedily informed that it lay about ten miles along his own route, and
was, in fact, almost at the eastern verge of the forest itself. The
sailor expressed his joy at this news in a practical manner; he
insisted on paying the reckoning for bed and breakfast. The little man
made a show of protest, but submitted amicably enough. The generous
Dan slapped him on the back, and declared that he was growing to love
him.

"I did not like thee over well at first," he said; "there are none of
the roses of innocence in thy face, thy jaws are too lean and hungry
looking, and thine eyes have an odd sort of stare in them. But
'handsome is that handsome does' is my motto, and I find thee a
downright pretty fellow."

The "pretty fellow" laughed good-humouredly. "Thou hast queer ways of
paying compliments, Dan Pengelly, and folk who did not understand thee
might take offence. But it's 'peace and good fellowship' betwixt us
twain; so let us take to the road and hope for a pleasant journey."

The sun shone frostily but cheerily. Down the Westgate Street and out
at the West Gate that abutted on the turbid Severn went the two
strangely assorted comrades. The sailor had a remark or two--not
altogether complimentary--to make about the river. Then they strode
along the causeway that spanned the marshy isle of Olney and led to the
western arm of the river. From thence a broad, tree-bordered highway
ran--at a little distance from