“He was pointed out to me as such by a man who knows London street life from West End to Woolwich. That man told me Lantry was king of the fog pirates.”
“You’re sure there’s no mistake about it?”
“Absolutely. And he’s the nerviest gent of the mist that ever lived. Likes to hobnob with swells on dough borrowed in the fog.”
“I’m much obliged to you for telling me this,” said Guy appreciatively. “I’ll look out that he doesn’t try any game on me.”
“Always be on your guard wherever you go,” advised Gunseyt, settling back in his seat as if to indicate that he had said all he cared to say on this subject. “There are sharpers all around you. Even a lot of the biggest guns will try to do you if you’re big enough game to make it worth their while.”
“I’ll watch out,” was the boy’s assurance as he walked away.
Next day Guy met Watson in the gymnasium again. At first he was inclined to avoid him because of the light in which the large-featured man had been pictured by Gunseyt. But a hearty greeting forced the boy’s geniality to the surface and constrained him to be polite.
“Hello, Burton,” cried Watson, ceasing his vicious jabs at a punching bag. “How’s your nautical demeanor?”
“On even keel,” replied Guy. “Engine’s oiled, pilot’s sober and the fireman’s shovelin’ coal.”
“Good! You’re an up-to-date seaman. I presume this isn’t your first trip?”