“But how is this done so openly? the house is surely known to the police.”
“Of course, and they are well paid for taking no notice of it.”
“And you?”
“Me! Well, I do a little that way too, though it’s only a branch of my business. I’m only Dirk Hatteraik, when I come down to the coast: then you know a man doesn’t like to be idle; so that when I’m here, or on the Bretagny shore, I generally mount the red cap, and buckle on the cutlass, just to keep moving; as when I go inland, I take an occasional turn with the gypsy folk in Bohemia, or their brethren, in the Basque provinces. There’s nothing like being up to every thing—that’s my way.”
I confess I was a good deal surprised at my companion’s account of himself, and not over impressed with the rigour of his principles; but my curiosity to know more of him, became so much the stronger.
“Well,” said I, “you seem to have a jolly life of it; and, certainly a healthful one.”
“Aye, that it is,” replied he quickly. “I’ve more than once thought of going back to Kerry, and living quietly for the rest of my days, for I could afford it well enough; but, somehow, the thought of staying in one place, talking always to the same set of people, seeing every day the same sights, and hearing the same eternal little gossip about little things, and little folk, was too much for me, and so I stuck to the old trade, which I suppose I’ll not give up now as long as I live.”
“And what may that be?” asked I, curious to know how he filled up moments snatched from the agreeable pursuits he had already mentioned.
He eyed me with a shrewd, suspicious look, for above a minute, and then, laying his hand on my arm, said—
“Where do you put up at, here in Antwerp?”