me down the narrow alleyway from the
after-cabin. He was a tall, lean, smooth-faced man, with moist black
hair that was partly sleek and shining, partly bristling out in
straggling wisps. His face was dewy, and his eyes perpetually blinking.
Cospatric asked him to play something. He peered at me for a moment or
two as though taking my measure, and then went to the piano and gave
vent to a particularly low comic song.

"Forecastle tastes," thought I; "that upright grand's a wasted
instrument."

Aloud I expressed conventional thanks. Haigh had another blink or two
in my direction, and then broke into Gounod's "Chantez toujours,"
singing it very passably. He hadn't much voice, but he knew how to
sing.

"Like that?" inquired Cospatric.

"Remarkably," said I.

"Better than the other?"

"A hundred per cent."

"Then keep the same stop out, Haigh, and go ahead."

And Haigh turned to the piano and rattled off half a dozen other
goodish ballads. Then he said he was tired, and straggled out on a sofa
and blinked at the ceiling, whilst Cospatric and I wallowed in
Cambridge shop again. It's extraordinary how men do like to talk over
the follies of those old times. And afterwards Celestin indulged us in
dinner, a regular epicurean feast, washed down with decent wine, a
thing worth much fine gold after a month and a half in Norway.

"You do know how to take care of yourself on this craft," I observed to
Cospatric that evening.

"We don't live like this at sea, you know. It's regular ship's fare
with us then. And so, you see, we appreciate little bouts of
_gourmandise_ when we get into port. Personally, I've got that
principle somewhat ingrained. In fact, I've rubbed along that way ever
since I got adrift from England and respectability. The system has its
drawbacks, but from my point of view it makes life worth living. I've
had roughish spells between whiles, but I'm so peculiarly constituted
that a short bright spot of comfort makes me forget the disagreeables
that have gone before, and wipes the slate clean for a fresh start."

During the days that followed, when not shooting or fishing, I was
generally on that ugly little cutter. Two things drew me: firstly (I'm
sorry to own), the fare, which was so vastly superior to my own; and
secondly, yarns. There was another attraction later, but I did not know
of it then.

Those yarns of Cospatric's were tales one would not forget. He told of
things which are not written dow