Mossop senior was also reputed to be a humane man; for if any of his best customers got into trouble (which was sometimes the case) and were short of funds, a five pound note in a blank envelop would reach them in prison to enable them to employ counsel in their defence; and this sum invariably appeared as "money lent" in Mossop's next account against them when they were free once more, and enabled to land another cargo at the wharf.
But to continue our narrative.
It was the evening after the one on which Morcar had called at Markham Place; consequently the evening of that day when the gipsy was to meet our hero on the Tower wharf.
Over the particulars of that meeting we, however, pass; as the plans then arranged will presently develop themselves.
It was now about nine o'clock.
The evening was beautiful and moonlight.
Myriads of stars were rocked to and fro in the cradle of the river's restless tide; and the profiles of the banks were marked with thousands of lights, glancing through dense forests of masts belonging to the shipping that were crowded along those shores.
At intervals those subdued murmurs which denoted that the river was as busy and active as the great city itself, were absorbed in the noise of some steamer ploughing its rapid way amidst the mazes of vessels that to the inexperienced eye appear to be inextricably entangled together.
Then would arise those shouts of warning to the smaller craft,—those rapid commands to regulate the movements of the engines,—and those orders to the helmsman, which, emanating from the lips of the captain posted on the paddle-box, proclaim the progress of the steamer winding its way up the pool.
A wondrous and deeply interesting spectacle, though only dimly seen, is that portion of the Thames on a moonlight night.