I made for that, and
ordered my meal--thanking my stars that I had been so lucky as to find
such a good place. But I was not left long in undisputed possession of
it.

While I was disposing of the very first mouthful the shop-door opened,
and a blue-cheeked, anxious-looking man peeped in, as though he were
frightened--or, perhaps, ashamed--and glanced eagerly round. Then, as
it seemed, finding nothing of a very alarming character, he came a step
further in, and stopped again, to have another look, and his eyes fell
upon me, and he stared very hard indeed, and came straight to my box,
and sat down opposite to me.

I can't say this made me feel particularly comfortable, for, you see,
for some days past I had spent the greater part of my time slipping
stealthily round corners, and dodging up and down the sneakiest courts
and alleys I could come across, with an idea that every lamp-post was a
policeman in disguise that had got his eye on me.

I can't say I felt much more comfortable at this stranger's behaviour,
when he had taken his seat and ordered a cup of coffee and a round of
toast, in a low, confidential tone of voice, just, as it struck me, as a
detective might have done who had the coffee-shop keeper in his pay.
Then he pulled a very mysterious little brown paper-covered book from
his pocket, consisting of some twenty pieces of manuscript, and he
attentively read in it, and then fixed his eyes upon the ceiling and
mumbled.

Said I to myself, "Perhaps this is some poor parson chap, learning up
his sermon for next Sunday."

But then this was only Monday night; it could hardly be that.

Presently, too, I noticed that he was secretly taking stock of me round
the side of the book. What, after all, if the written sheets of paper
contained a minute description of myself and the other runaways who were
"wanted?"

He now certainly seemed to be making a comparison between me and
something he was reading--summing me up, as it were--and I felt precious
uncomfortable, I can tell you.

All at once he spoke.

"It's a chilly evening, sir."

"Yes," I said.

"A sailor, I think?"

There was no good denying that. A sailor looks like a sailor, and
nothing else.

"Yes," I said, slowly.

"A fine profession, sir!" said he; "a noble profession. Shiver my
timbers!"

Now, you know, we don't shiver our timbers in reality; and if we did, we
shouldn't shiver them in the tone of voice the blue-cheeked man shivered
his