"Black boys be hanged! I never knowed a Sambo as was any use on board ship. They howls when they're sick, and they're allers sick, and never larns to tell a marlinspike from a belayin' pin." "But Scipio isn't one of that sort. He's never sick, Mr. Diggle says; they've been several voyages together, and Scipio knows a ship from stem to stern." "Scipio, which his name is? Uncommon name, that." There was a new tone in Bulger's voice, and he gave Desmond a keen and, as it seemed, a troubled look. "Yes, it is strange," replied the boy, vaguely aware of the change of manner. "But Mr. Diggle has ways of his own." "This Mr. Diggle, now; I may be wrong, but I should say--yes, he's short, with bow legs and a wart on his cheek?" "No, no; you must be thinking of some one else. He is tall, rather a well-looking man; he hasn't a wart, but there is a scar on his brow, something like yours." "Ah, I know they sort; a fightin' sort o' feller, with a voice like--which I say, like a nine pounder?" "Well, not exactly; he speaks rather quietly; he is well educated, too, to judge by the Latin he quotes." "Sure now, a scholard. Myself, I never had no book larnin' to speak of; never got no further than pothooks an' hangers!" He laughed as he lifted his hook. But he seemed to be disinclined for further conversation. He buried his face in his tankard, and when he had taken a long pull, set the vessel on the table and stared at it with a preoccupied air. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of Desmond. The other men were talking among themselves, and Desmond, having by this time finished his mug of beer, rose to go on his way. "Goodby, Mr. Bulger," he said; "we shall meet again next Wednesday." "Ay, ay, sir," returned the man. He looked long after the boy as he walked away. "Supercargo!" he muttered. "Diggle! I may be wrong, but--" Desmond had come through Southwark and across Clapham and Wimbledon Common, thus approaching the Waterman's Rest from the direction of Kingston. Accustomed as he was to long tramps, he felt no fatigue, and with a boy's natural curiosity he decided to return to the city by a different route, following the river bank. He had not walked far before he came to the ferry at Twickenham. The view on the other side of the river attracted him: meadows dotted with cows and sheep, a verdant hill with pleasant villas here and there; and, seeing the ferryman resting on his oars, he accosted him. "Can I get to London if I cross here?" he asked. "Sure you can, sir. Up the hill past Mr. Walpole his house; then you comes to Isleworth and Brentford, and a straight road through Hammersmith village--a fine walk, sir, and only a penny for the ferryman."