Hughie turned to the speaker. He found beside him a man of about thirty, with a fair moustache, which half hid a weak but amiable mouth and a receding chin. He was dressed in the thick blue shore-going garments of the seaman, but he looked too slight for an A.B. and too clean for a fireman.
"Deck-hand," said Hughie to himself. "Gentleman once—no, still!"
"Hallo!" he replied. "You seem to know me. Forgive me if I ought to know you, but I can't fix you at present. Odd thing, too, because I don't often forget a face."
"I was up at Cambridge in your time," said the man.
"Not Benedict's?"
"No—Trinity. I was sent down ultimately. But I knew you well by sight. Often saw you in the boat, and so on. You're Marrable, aren't you?"
"No. I hunted with the Drag and rode at Cottenham—in those days." He glanced philosophically at his present attire.
"Come and have something," said Hughie.
The man interested him. He might, of course, be a mere long-shore shark on the make, or he might be what he looked—a good-hearted, well-born waster—an incorrigible but contented failure. Anyhow, five minutes over a friendly glass would probably settle the question.