“Oh, I can’t stand this,” I said, raising a menacing heel. But more humane feeling prevailed, and once more I stooped to assist the pertinacious crustacean to his native deep. A nip from his foreclaws was all I got for my pains. “Very well,” I said, “if you _will_ have it, you will.” Down came the heel, there was a sickening scrunch, and what had been a crab was a noisome mess. Then I heard an exclamation of disgust behind me, and, looking guiltily round, saw that Mullen, who had hitherto been too absorbed in watching the shipping to interest himself in my fishing, had heard the scrunch of the crab’s shell under my heel, and had turned to ascertain the cause. “You brute!” he said. “Why couldn’t you throw the wretched thing back into the water?” “It ain’t none of your business,” I answered sulkily. “It is my business, and every decent person’s business. The thing never did you any harm. Besides, look at the ghastly mess you’ve made.” “Ain’t you never killed nothin’ wot done you no ’arm?” I asked, perhaps indiscreetly. “Yes, if I had any reason to do so; just as I’d gladly put my heel on your ugly brute’s head and crush the life out of you as you’ve crushed it out of that wretched crab,--but not from wanton destructiveness.” I did not think it wise to prolong an argument which touched upon such delicate and personal ground, so I continued my fishing in silence, and after another exclamation of disgust Mullen turned away to devote himself once more to the shipping. Not a vessel went by that he did not scrutinise carefully, and I noticed that when any small steamer hove in sight he fidgeted restlessly until she was near enough to allow inspection. That he was on the look-out either for a ship or for a signal from a ship I felt sure; and I was inclined to think that the irritability he had just displayed was due more to nerve tension, and to his disappointment at not seeing the vessel for which he was watching, than to any other cause. One thing seemed certain, however,--Mullen was breaking down under the strain, and was no longer the man he had been. This was very manifest later on in the day when a large steam yacht made her appearance at the mouth of the Thames. All his attention was at once riveted upon her, and as she crept up the river towards us I could see that he was becoming feverishly anxious. “There’s a pair of field-glasses in the hold where I am sleeping,” he said. “Would you mind getting them for me, like a good fellow? Some one might see me if I went myself. I want to have a look at yonder big liner going down the river. I fancy I sailed in her once.” I did as he requested, and he made a pretence of examining the liner. “Yes, it is she; I can read her name quite easily,” he said, turning the glasses from the big ship to the steam yacht. His hand trembled so that he seemed unable at first to get the focus, and I distinctly saw the quick fluttering of his pulse in the veins of his wrist. “What _is_ her name?” I asked.