"Then you'll know, guv'nor, that all round about that High Street there's still a lot o' queer old places as ancient as what it is," continued Fish. "Me and my mate, Shanks, knew one, what we'd oft used in times past--the Goose and Crane, as snug a spot as you'll find in any shipping-town in this here country. Maybe you'll know it?" "I've seen it from outside, Fish," I answered. "A fine old front--half timber." "That's it, guv'nor--and as pleasant inside as it's remarkable outside," he said. "Well, my mate and me we goes in there for a morning glass, and into a room where you'll find some interesting folk about that time o' day. There's a sign on the door o' that room, gentlemen, what reads 'For Master Mariners Only,' but it's an old piece of work, and you don't want to take no heed of it--me and Shanks we ain't master mariners, though we may look it in our shore rig-out, and we've used that room whenever we've been in Hull. Well, now we gets our glasses, and our cigars, and we sits down in a quiet corner to enjoy ourselves and observe what company drops in. Some queer old birds there is comes in to that place, I do assure you, gentlemen, and some strange tales o' seafaring life you can hear. Howsomever, there wasn't nothing partic'lar struck me that morning until it was getting on to dinner-time, and me an Shanks was thinking o' laying a course for our lodgings, where we'd ordered a special bit o' dinner to celebrate our happy meeting, like, when in comes the man I'm a talking about. And if he wasn't Netherfield Baxter, what I'd known ever since he was the heighth o' six-pennorth o' copper, then, says I, a man's eyes and a man's ears isn't to be trusted!" "Fish!" said Scarterfield, who was listening intently. "It'll be best if you give us a description of this man. Tell us, as near as you can, what he's like--I mean, of course the man you saw at the Goose and Crane." Our visitor seemed to pull his mental faculties together. He took another pull at his glass and several at his cigar. "Well," he said, "t'aint much in my line, that, me not being a scholar, but I can give a general idea, d'ye see, master. A tallish, good-looking chap, as the women 'ud call handsome, sort of rakish fellow, you understand. Dressed very smart. Blue serge suit--good stuff, new. Straw hat--black band. Brown boots--polished and shining. Quite the swell--as Netherfield always was, even when he'd got through his money. The gentleman! Lord bless your souls, I knew him, for all that I hadn't seen him for several years, and that he'd grown a beard!" "A beard, eh--" interrupted Scarterfield. "Beard and moustache," assented Fish. "What colour?" asked Scarterfield. "What you might call a golden-brown," replied Fish. "Cut--the beard was--to a point. Suited him." Scarterfield drew out his pocket-book and produced a slightly-faded photograph--that of a certain good-looking, rather nattish young man, taken in company with a fox-terrier. He handed it to Fish.