He was still busy with his self-imposed task when a diversion was created by the entrance of a new arrival. A short, stout man stood for a moment with the handle of the door in his hand, and then came in, carefully bearing before him a glass of gin and water. It was the first time that he had set foot there, and all understood that by this intrusion Mr. Daniel Kybird sought to place sea-captains and other dignitaries on a footing with the keepers of slop-shops and dealers in old clothes. In the midst of an impressive silence he set his glass upon the table and, taking a chair, drew a small clay pipe from his pocket. Aghast at the intrusion, the quartette conferred with their eyes, a language which is perhaps only successful in love. Captain Cooper, who was usually moved to speech by externals, was the first to speak. “You’ve got a sty coming on your eye, Hall,” he remarked. “I daresay.” “If anybody’s got a needle,” said the captain, who loved minor operations. Nobody heeded him except the harbour-master, and he muttered something about beams and motes, which the captain failed to understand. The others were glaring darkly at Mr. Kybird, who had taken up a newspaper and was busy perusing it. “Are you looking for anybody?” demanded Captain Nugent, at last. “No,” said Mr. Kybird, looking at him over the top of his paper. “What have you come here for, then?” inquired the captain. “I come ’ere to drink two o’ gin cold,” returned Mr. Kybird, with a dignity befitting the occupation. “Well, suppose you drink it somewhere else,” suggested the captain. Mr. Kybird had another supposition to offer. “Suppose I don’t?” he remarked. “I’m a respect-able British tradesman, and my money is as good as yours. I’ve as much right to be here as you ’ave. I’ve never done anything I’m ashamed of!” “And you never will,” said Captain Cooper’s friend, grimly, “not if you live to be a hundred.” Mr. Kybird looked surprised at the tribute. “Thankee,” he said, gratefully. “Well, we don’t want you here,” said Captain Nugent. “We prefer your room to your company.” Mr. Kybird leaned back in his chair and twisted his blunt features into an expression of withering contempt. Then he took up a glass and drank, and discovered too late that in the excitement of the moment he had made free with the speaker’s whisky. “Don’t apologize,” interrupted the captain; “it’s soon remedied.” He took the glass up gingerly and flung it with a crash into the fireplace. Then he rang the bell. “I’ve smashed a dirty glass,” he said, as the bar-man entered. “How much?” The man told him, and the captain, after a few stern remarks about privacy and harpies, left the room with his friends, leaving the speechless Mr. Kybird gazing at the broken glass and returning evasive replies to the inquiries of the curious Charles.