The old man hesitated a moment, and then taking the seat beside him, accepted the proffered pouch and smelt the contents critically. Then he drew a small black clay from his pocket and slowly filled it.
“Smokes all right,” he said after a few puffs. He leaned back, and half closing his eyes, smoked with the enjoyment of an old smoker to whom a pipe is a somewhat rare luxury, while Henry regarded his shabby clothes and much-patched boots with great interest.
“Stranger here?” inquired the old man amiably.
“Schooner Seamew down in the harbor,” said Henry, indicating the distant town of Stourwich with a wave of his hand.
“Ay, ay,” said the old man, and smoked in silence.
“Got to stay here for a few days,” said Henry, watching him out of the tail of his eye; “then back.”
“London?” suggested the other.
“Northfleet,” said Henry carelessly, “that’s where we came from.”
The old man’s face twitched ever so slightly, and he blew out a cloud of smoke.
“Do you live there?” he inquired.