The boat was in no wise crowded, yet Lucius felt it was no place for confidential talk. Who could say what minion of Mr. Otranto’s might be lurking among those seedily-clad passengers, most of whom had a nondescript vagabond look, as if they had neither trade nor profession, and had no motive for being on board that boat save a vague desire to get rid of time? Influenced by this insecurity Lucius spoke only of indifferent subjects, till, after stopping at innumerable piers, and lowering their chimney beneath innumerable bridges, as it seemed to Lucius, they came at last to Cadogan Pier, whence it was an easy walk across Battersea-bridge to the sea-captain’s domicile. This bit of the river-side has an old-world look, or had a few years ago—a look that reminded Mr. Schanck pleasantly of little waterside towns on the shores of the mighty Elbe. The wooden backs of the dilapidated old houses overhung the water; the tower of Chelsea Church rose above the flat; there were a few trees, an old bridge; a generally picturesque effect produced out of the humblest materials. ‘It buts me in mint of my faterlant,’ said Absalom, as they paused on the bridge to look back at the Chelsea shore. Mr. Schanck’s abode was small and low—on a level with the river; whereby at spring-tide the housewife’s kitchen was apt to be flooded. A flagstaff adorned the little square of garden, which was not floral, its chief decorations being a row of large conk shells, and two ancient figure-heads, which stood on either side of the small street-door, glaring at the visitor, painted a dead white, and ghastly as the spectres of departed vessels. One was a gigantic Loreley, with flowing hair; the other was Frederick the Great; and these were the tutelary gods of Mr. Schanck’s home. Within, the visitor descended a step or two—the steps steep and brassbound, like a companion-ladder—to the small low-ceiled sitting-room which Mr. Schanck called his cuddy. Here he was provided with numerous cupboards with sliding-doors—in fact, the walls were all cupboard—in which were to be found all a ship’s stores on a small scale, from mathematical instruments and case-bottles to tinned provisions and grocery. From these stores Mr. Schanck dealt out the daily rations to his housewife, a little woman of forty-five or so, whose husband had been his first mate, and had died in his service. There was a small cellar, approached by a trap-door, below this parlour or cuddy, where there were more tinned provisions, groceries, ship-biscuit, and case-bottles, and which Mr. Schanck called the lazarette. The galley, or kitchen, was on the other side of a narrow passage, and a stair of the companion-ladder fashion—steep and winding—led to three small staterooms or bedchambers, one of which was furnished with the hammock wherein Mr. Schanck had slept away so many unconscious hours, rocked in the cradle of the deep.