"And you, papa, and Mr. Todhetley might pay a visit to Madame Tussaud's," put in Coralie, who had not lost her equanimity the least in the world, seeming to look upon the escapade as more of a joke than otherwise. "They will very probably be found at Madame Tussaud's: it is a safe place of resort when people want to talk secrets and be under shelter." There might be reason in what Coralie said. Certainly there was no need for a procession of live people and two cabs to invade the regions of Tower Hill. So Jack, buttoning his light over-coat over his dinner toggery, got into a hansom with me, and the two old gentlemen went off to see the kings and queens. "Drive like the wind," said Jack to the cabman. "No. 23, Ship Street, Tower Hill." "I thought you did not know his number," I said, as we went skimming over the stones. "I do not know Pym's: am not sure that he puts up in Ship Street. My second mate, Mark Ferrar, lives at No. 23, and I dare say he can direct me to Pym's." Mark Ferrar! The name struck on my memory. "Does Ferrar come from Worcester, do you know, Jack? Is he related to the Battleys of Crabb?" "It is the same," said Jack. "I have heard his history. One of his especial favourites is Mr. Johnny Ludlow." "How strange!--strange that he should be in your ship! Does he do well? Is he a good sailor?" "First-rate. Ferrar is really a superior young man, steady and painstaking, and has got on wonderfully. As soon as he qualifies for master, which will be in another year or two, he will be placed in command, unless I am mistaken. Our owners see what he is, and push him forward. They drafted him into my ship two years ago." How curious it was! Mark Ferrar, the humble charity-boy, the _frog_, who had won the heart of poor King Sanker, rising thus quickly towards the top of the tree! I had always liked Mark; had seen how trustworthy he was. Our cab might fly like the wind; but Tower Hill seemed a long way off in spite of it. Dashing into Ship Street at last, I looked about me, and saw a narrow street with narrow houses on either side, narrow doors that somehow did not look upright, and shutters closed before the downstairs windows. No. 23. Jack got out, and knocked at the door. A young boy opened it, saying he believed Mr. Ferrar was in his parlour. You had to dive down a step to get into the passage. I followed Jack in. The parlour-door was on the right, and the boy pushed it open. A smart, well-dressed sailor sat at the table, his head bent over books and papers, apparently doing exercises by candle-light. It was Mark Ferrar. His honest, homely face, with the wide mouth and plain features, looked much the same; but the face was softened into--I had almost said--that of a gentleman. Mark finished the sentence he was writing, looked up, and saw his captain. "Oh, sir, is it you?" he said, rising. "I beg your pardon." "Busy at your books, I see, Mr. Ferrar?"