"To—to Dock, sir," I stammered. "Let me go, please: I'm in a hurry."
My captor held me out at arm's length and eyed me. He was a sailor, and rigged out in his best shore-going clothes—tarpaulin hat, blue coat and waistcoat, and a broad leathern belt to hold up his duck trousers, on which my sooty head had left its mark. He grinned at me good-naturedly. I saw that he had been drinking.
"In a hurry? And what's your hurry about? Business?"
"Ye—es, sir."
"'Stonishing what spirit boys'll put into work nowadays! I've seen boys run for a leg o' mutton, and likewise I've seen 'em run when they've broken ship; but on the path o' duty, my sonny, you've the legs of any boy in my ex-perience. Well, for once, you'll put pleasure first. I'm bound for Dock or thereabouts myself, and under convoy." He waved his hand up the street, where twelve or fifteen hackney-coaches stood in line ahead.
"If you please, sir—"
He threw open the coach door. "Jump in. The frigate sets the rate o' sailing. That's Bill."
I hesitated, rebellious.
"That's Bill. Messmate o' mine on the Bedford, and afore that on the Vesuvius bomb. There, sonny—don't stand gaping at me like a stuck pig: I never expected ye to know him! And now the time's past, and ye'll go far afore finding a better. Bill Adams his name was; but Bill to me, always, and in all weathers." Here for a moment he became maudlin. "Paid off but three days agone, same as myself, and now—cut down like a flower! He's the corpse, ahead, in the first conveyance."
"Is this a funeral, sir?"