Sparkin did not betray any self-conscious cowardice.
“He was worse off, captain.”
“Poor devil!” And the man in the red coat laughed.
They turned into “The Three Tuns” at Charing Cross, the sea-captain looking more like a Whitefriars’ bully than a gentleman adventurer. Two comfortable citizens gathered up the skirts of their coats and edged away sourly when the new-comers sat down next them at a table. The captain remarked their neighborly caution, and smiled.
“Good-day, gentlemen. We embarrass you, perhaps?”
There was a humorous grimness about his mouth that carried conviction.
“Not at all, sir, not at all,” said the larger of the twain, poised between propitiation and distrust.
“We are not Scotch, sir, so you will catch nothing.”
They dined in silence, the boy’s animation divided between his plate and his surroundings, while the man in the red coat watched him with the air of one who has an abundant past to feed his thoughts. His neighbors cast curious momentary glances at him from time to time, but having once spoken he appeared to have forgotten their existence. They had but to look beneath the superficial shabbiness to see that the man was of some standing in the world. He had that gift of remaining statuesquely silent, that poise that suggests power. The brown, resolute face had the comeliness of courage. Of no great stature, his sturdy, hollow-backed figure betrayed strength to those who could distinguish between fat and muscle.
The boy’s appetite reached impotence at last. The man in the red coat beckoned to the servant, paid his due with odd small change routed out of every pocket, and with a curt bow to his neighbors walked out into the street.