Our cab might fly like the wind; but Tower Hill seemed a long way off in spite of it. Dashing into Ship Street at last, I looked about me, and saw a narrow street with narrow houses on either side, narrow doors that somehow did not look upright, and shutters closed before the downstairs windows.
No. 23. Jack got out, and knocked at the door. A young boy opened it, saying he believed Mr. Ferrar was in his parlour.
You had to dive down a step to get into the passage. I followed Jack in. The parlour-door was on the right, and the boy pushed it open. A smart, well-dressed sailor sat at the table, his head bent over books and papers, apparently doing exercises by candle-light.
It was Mark Ferrar. His honest, homely face, with the wide mouth and plain features, looked much the same; but the face was softened into—I had almost said—that of a gentleman. Mark finished the sentence he was writing, looked up, and saw his captain.
“Oh, sir, is it you?” he said, rising. “I beg your pardon.”
“Busy at your books, I see, Mr. Ferrar?”
Mark smiled—the great, broad, genuine smile I so well remembered. “I had to put them by for other books, while I was studying to pass for chief, sir. That done, I can get to them again with an easy conscience.”
“To be sure. Can you tell me where Mr. Pym lodges?”
“Close by: a few doors lower down. But I can show you the house, sir.”
“Have you forgotten me, Mark?” I asked, as he took up his cap to come with us.