“Well—p’raps ’e ’as,” replied the Captain, somewhat reluctantly. “But let me give you a word of advice, my friend,” he added to the abject Shady ’un. “W’en nex’ you tries to ’elp anybody, wot’s bein’ run over—or run through—by a couple of thieves, don’t show your kindness of ’eart by a thumpin’ ’im in the wes’kit; to a man o’ my figger, it ain’t exactly a kindness. An’ don’t call gentlemen out of their names—’cos you’ll find——”
“That’s all right, Captain,” interrupted Philip; “this man knows me as Mr. Chater.” To the Shady ’un, who had been that moment released, he whispered quickly—“Get off as fast as you can—and think yourself lucky.”
The man needed no second bidding, and in a moment Philip Chater and the man whom he had addressed as the Captain were left standing alone in the street. The Captain was a big, burly individual, with a round good-tempered face, surrounded by a fringe of dark whiskers; whatever temporary exaltation he might have been labouring under, before the attack upon him, he was now perfectly sober, and looked at his friend with considerable gravity, and with a slowly shaking head.
“My boy—far be it from the likes o’ me to interfere with a mess-mate, or with ’is little fancies—but I don’t like this ’ere sailin’ under false colours. I did know a ’ighly respectable ole gal, wot called ’erself the Queen o’ Lambeth; but she lived in a retirin’ way, in a lunatic asylum. W’y, if so be as your name is Crowdy—w’y, I ask, call yourself by such a common name as Chater?”
“I can’t explain now,” said Philip, hurriedly. “A number of strange things have happened, since last I saw you. You mustn’t think badly of me, old friend; but, for the present, I am sailing under false colours, and am known to all the world as Chater. Moreover, I must impress upon you to forget that you ever knew any one of the name of Crowdy, or that he ever sailed with you, on board the good ship ‘Camel,’ from Australia for England. Come—forget all about me, for the present—and tell me about yourself, and when you sail again.” He glanced at his watch, as he spoke, and found that it was exactly ten o’clock. “I have half an hour to spare, Captain; where shall we go, for a chat?”
“W’y—to tell the truth, I’m a cruisin’ in strange waters, an’ ’ave lost my bearings a bit,” replied the Captain, looking about him with a puzzled air. “If so be as you knew of a place, where the grog wasn’t watered over much, with a locker for a man to rest ’isself on, it might be better than the streets—eh?”
Accordingly, they set out together, to find a house of refreshment; and presently came upon one, in a quiet street, with a tiny bar—empty—round a corner. Here they called for what the Captain termed “a toothful,” and were soon deep in conversation.
“You haven’t told me yet when you sail again,” said Philip, when he had parried the other’s questions as much as possible. “I suppose you’ll be quite glad to get on board again.”
“Well—not exactly,” replied the Captain—whose name, by the way, was Peter Quist. “I’m a thinkin’ of givin’ it up altogether. Yer see—it’s this way,” he added, confidentially. “I’ve put by a bit of money, an’ I’m thinkin’ of settlin’ down ashore. The sea’s been my business—an’ I want somethin’ else for my pleasure. I’m a thinkin’,” he went on slowly, pulling meditatively at his whiskers—“I’m a thinkin’ of goin’ in for the showman line, with a dash of the circus. I was always fond of ’osses—an’ I believe as fat ladies and two-’eaded babbies is profitable—always supposin’ as Mrs. Quist don’t get spiteful about the fat ladies. I’m now a lookin’ out for anybody as ’as got a good second-’and circus to dispose of, with a fat lady or two goin’ cheap.”
“Well,” said Philip, laughing, “I hope you’ll succeed. But what brings you into this part of the world?”