"This Mr. Diggle, now; I may be wrong, but I should say--yes, he's short, with bow legs and a wart on his cheek?"
"No, no; you must be thinking of some one else. He is tall, rather a well-looking man; he hasn't a wart, but there is a scar on his brow, something like yours."
"Ah! I know they sort; a fightin' sort o' feller, with a voice like--which I say, like a nine-pounder?"
"Well, not exactly; he speaks rather quietly; he is well educated, too, to judge by the Latin he quotes."
"Sure now, a scholard. Myself, I never had no book larnin' to speak of; never got no further than pothooks an' hangers!"
He laughed as he lifted his hook. But he seemed to be disinclined for further conversation. He buried his face in his tankard, and when he had taken a long pull set the vessel on the table and stared at it with a preoccupied air. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of Desmond. The other men were talking among themselves, and Desmond, having by this time finished his mug of beer, rose to go on his way.
"Good-bye, Mr. Bulger," he said; "we shall meet again next Wednesday."
"Ay, ay, sir," returned the man.
He looked long after the boy as he walked away.
"Supercargo!" he muttered. "Diggle! I may be wrong, but----"