"Of his own vessel—a yacht. Not but what he has been about the world in vessels of all sorts, he tells us; one voyage before the mast, the next right up next to the skipper. But for them ups and downs where, as he says, would sailors find their experience?"
"Very true. Well, this is all I want just now. Good-evening."
"Good-evening, sir," replied Caleb Lee.
The end of the street to which Tom had pointed was destitute of shops; the houses were small and poor; consequently, it was tolerably dark. Tom was sauntering along, smoking a short pipe.
"Is there any place at hand where we can have a few words together in tolerable security?" I asked.
"Come along," briefly responded Tom. "You walk on the other side of the street, old fellow; keep me in view."
It was good advice, and I took it. He increased his pace to a brisk walk, and presently turned down a narrow passage, which brought him to a sort of small, triangular green, planted with shrubs and trees. I followed, and we sat down on one of the benches.
"Are you quite mad, Tom?"
"Not mad a bit," laughed Tom. "I say, Charley, did you come to that book-stall to look after me?"
"Ay. And it's about the tenth time I have been there."