"’Quanta de spe decidi!’" he said, "which in plain English, friend Job, means that we are dished--utterly, absolutely. I must go on my travels again; well, such was my intention; the only difference is, that I go with an empty purse instead of a full one. Who’d have thought the old dog would ha’ been such an unconscionable time dying!" "Gout or no gout, he’s good for another ten year," growled the innkeeper. "Well, I’ll give him five. And with the boy out of the way, maybe I’ll come to my own even yet. The young puppy!" At this moment Diggle’s face was by no means pleasant to look upon. "Fate has always had a grudge against me, Job. In the old days, I bethink me, ’twas I that was always found out. You had many an escape." "Till the last. But I’ve come out of this well." He chuckled. "To think what a fool blood makes of a man! Squire winna touch me, ’cause of you. But it must gall him; ay, it must gall him." "Hist!" said Diggle suddenly. "There are footsteps again. Is it Burke coming back? The door’s open, Job." The innkeeper went to the door and peered into the dark. A slight figure came up at that moment--a boy, with a bundle in his hand. "Is that you, Grinsell? Is Mr. Diggle in?" "Come in, my friend," said Diggle, hastening to the door. "We were just talking of you. Come in; ’tis a late hour; ’si vespertinus subito’--you remember old Horace? True, we haven’t a hen to baste with Falernian for you, but sure friend Job can find a wedge of Cheshire and a mug of ale. Come in." And Desmond went into the inn. CHAPTER THE SIXTH *In which the reader becomes acquainted with William Bulger and other sailor men; and our hero as a squire of dames acquits himself with credit.* One warm October afternoon, some ten days after the night of his visit to the _Four Alls_, Desmond was walking along the tow-path of the Thames, somewhat north of Kingston. As he came to the spot where the river bends round towards Teddington, he met a man plodding along with a rope over his shoulder, hauling a laden hoy. "Can you tell me the way to the _Waterman’s Rest_?" asked Desmond. "Ay, that can I," replied the man without stopping. "’Tis about a quarter-mile behind me, right on waterside. And the best beer this side o’ Greenwich." Thanking him, Desmond walked on. He had not gone many yards further before there fell upon his ear, from some point ahead, the sound of several rough voices raised in chorus, trolling a tune that seemed familiar to him. As he came nearer to the singers, he distinguished the words of the song, and remembered the occasion on which he had heard them before: the evening of Clive’s banquet at Market Drayton--the open window of the _Four Alls_, the voice of Marmaduke Diggle. Sir William Norris, Masulipatam-- these were the first words he caught; and immediately afterwards the voices broke into the second verse: