"Good-night to you, master," responded the sailor.
He lounged slowly away. It was not Tom Heriot. About his build and his fair complexion, but shorter than Tom. A real, genuine Jack-tar, this, unmistakably. Was he the man Leah had seen? This one wore no beard, but bushy, drooping whiskers.
"Looking for another book, sir?"
In momentary confusion, I caught up the book nearest to hand. It proved to be "Fatherless Fanny," and I said I'd take it. While searching for the money, I remarked that the sailor, just gone away, had said we should have rain to-morrow.
"I don't see that he is obliged to be right, though he was so positive over it," returned the man. "I hate a rainy day: spoils our custom. Thankye, sir. Sixpence this time. That's right."
"Do many sailors frequent this neighbourhood?"
"Not many; we've a sprinkling of 'em sometimes. They come over here from the Kent Road way."
Well, and what else could I ask? Nothing. And just then a voice came from the shop.
"Father," called out Miss Betsy, "is it not time to shut up?"
"What do you ask? Getting a little deaf, sir, in my old age. Coming, Betsy."