After that he seemed plainly anxious to be rid of us. I bade him good night, and he grasped my hand warmly enough. Then he turned to the captain in his most condescending manner. But a great change had come over John Paul. He was ever quick to see and to learn, and I rejoiced to remark that he did not bow over the hand, as he might have done two hours since. He was again Captain Paul, the man, who fought his way on his own merits. He held himself as tho' he was once more pacing the deck of the John. The slim gentleman poured the width of a finger of claret in his glass, soused it with water, and held it up. “Here's to your future, my good captain,” he said, “and to Mr. Carvel's safe arrival home again. When you get to town, Mr. Carvel, don't fail to go to Davenport, who makes clothes for most of us at Almack's, and let him remodel you. I wish to God he might get hold of your doctor. And put up at the Star and Garter in Pall Mall: I take it that you have friends in London.” I replied that I had. But he did not push the inquiry. “You should write out this history for your grandchildren, Mr. Carvel,” he added, as he bade his Swiss light us to our room. “A strange yarn indeed, captain.” “And therefore,” said the captain, coolly, “as a stranger give it welcome. “'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'” Had a meteor struck at the gentleman's feet, he could not have been more taken aback. “What! What's this?” he cried. “You quote Hamlet! And who the devil are you, sir, that you know my name?” “Your name, sir!” exclaims the captain, in astonishment. “Well, well,” he said, stepping back and eying us closely, “'tis no matter. Good night, gentlemen, good night.” And we went to bed with many a laugh over the incident. “His name must be Horatio. We'll discover it in the morning,” said John Paul. CHAPTER XXIII. LONDON TOWN But he had not risen when we set out, nor would the illnatured landlord reveal his name. It mattered little to me, since I desired to forget him as quickly as possible. For here was one of my own people of quality, a gentleman who professed to believe what I told him, and yet would do no more for me than recommend me an inn and a tailor; while a poor sea-captain, driven from his employment and his home, with no better reason to put faith in my story, was sharing with me his last penny. Goble, in truth, had made us pay dearly for our fun with him, and the hum of the vast unknown fell upon our ears with the question of lodging still unsettled. The captain was for going to the Star and Garter, the inn the gentleman had mentioned. I was in favour of seeking a more modest and less fashionable hostelry. “Remember that you must keep up your condition, Richard,” said John Paul.