He poured out a glass of brandy and sat with his hand on the glass, sipping his liquor now and again, but never turning his watchful gaze from the door. Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, every wise man’s son doth know. All was well with Brandon Pomfrett, doubtless; for the time, at any rate, there were two happy persons in Gamaliel’s house to-night. But old Dawkins and myself had scanty consolation; we had nothing to occupy our minds save the vision of the formidable Murch, approaching steadily, inevitably, through the white, silent streets and the darkness. Presently Dawkins began to sing to himself a melancholy chanty, in a rough, low voice that rose and fell like the wind.
“I’m a-drifting with the tide, messmates, a-drifting with the tide.
So let me drift, and let me drift, away to the sea outside,
Along the stream what flows so fast, and murmurs as it goes,
‘Ho, never lift your hand again, nor turn to face your foes,
For——’”
“What’s that?” There came a muffled knocking on the door. Mr Dawkins lugged a pistol from his pocket. But the knocking ceased, and an uncertain footstep passed by the window.
“Saved again,” said Dawkins. “When Murch knocks, he knocks, and similarly, when he walks, he marches, damn him! Another drunken seaman, I reckon.” He laid the pistol on the table, and went on crooning to himself.
“‘For work is done, and thoughts is vain, you’re tired to the bones;
Rest easy now, I’ll carry you slow, and the end for all atones;