"What appearing man is her master," asked Anthony with interest.
"Not a Frenchman, though you'd expect him to be. He's American, right enough, and one that I'm not fond of because of a kind of slithering laugh he's got. And he wears a patch over one of his eyes."
Anthony smiled and seemed to enjoy the bread and beef much more than before.
"So that's who my gentleman is!" he said to himself. "And with an ice-locked ship." Then he said aloud, "I suppose he was on his way to his vessel when he went by?"
"Where else?" asked the host. "He never goes further south than that; and no further north than the Brig Tavern, which is off the road, some miles from here."
"I have heard that is an excellent place of entertainment," said Anthony.
"It was for many years," said the host, with a nod of the head, "and, as far as food and drink and such-like go, is so still. But," and here the nod turned to a shake, "in other ways it seems different now. I've heard ill reports of it."
"It's a place for shipmen to stop, I've been told," said Anthony. "If that is so, there cannot be a great deal wrong with it."
"There are shipmen and shipmen," said the stout tavern-keeper. "Some are honest and give their minds to bringing their ships home, all snug and trim, and carrying profitable merchandise; others again have never sailed an honest voyage and never stowed an item of cargo that was properly come by."
"Pirates," smiled Anthony. "But there are none such in these waters."