"Faith, I don’t know, but he have a fine long purse, and ’tis a fine swashing gentleman. Howsomever, I’ll go to the Star and Garter as you say, and see your man—what be his name? Minshull; good; I’ll go soon, and—Coming, sir, coming," he added in answer to a hail from below. "I’ll go afore ’tis dark, ’struth, I will." He left the room, and Harry felt a momentary glow of hope. It was dulled immediately. The three sailors re-entered. Without ado they again bound his arms, which had been loosed to allow of his lifting his food, and carried him downstairs. Daylight was fading. At the door Harry looked eagerly around for some person whom a cry might bring to his rescue. Alas! the house was in a blind alley, and no one but his captors was in sight. He did raise his voice and give one resounding call. A gag was instantly slipped into his mouth, and he was hurried to the open end of the alley, where a hackney coach stood waiting. Into this he was thrown; two of the sailors got in with him, the third mounted to a place beside the driver, and the vehicle rumbled and jolted over the rough cobbles. Some twenty minutes later it pulled up at the Tower Wharf, where Harry had vainly sought for Jan Grootz a few days before. It was now night, and as he was lifted out and borne towards the wharf side, Harry saw by the light of naphtha torches a busy scene. Sailors, lightermen, stevedores were moving hither and thither; the ground was strewn with bales and packages; the last portions of a cargo were being transferred to the hold of a barque that lay alongside. No one paid attention to the not unusual spectacle of a young fellow going unwillingly to a vessel bound for the Plantations. Harry’s captors, joking, chewing, spitting, shoved him with no tender hands on to the gangway. At the other end of it stood a dark-featured, beetle-browed old seaman, the captain of the vessel, bawling orders to this and that member of his crew. "Ha!" he cried, as he saw the new-comer hauled along in the sailors’ arms; "this be the springald? Zooks! ye are none too soon: tide turns in half an hour." "Here we be, sir, true; and this be Christopher Butler, mark you, for the Plantations." "Papers?" roared the captain, spitting into the river. "All taut, sir," replied the man, producing the document that Harry had refused to sign; it bore a signature now. "Obstropolous, eh?" "Changed his mind, sir, it seems, since signing on; ha’ give us some trouble." "Oons! We’ll cure that. All aboard! Stow the cockerel in the foc’sle; strap un to a plank; we’ll have no ’tarnal tricks." As Harry was lugged forward he noticed two figures standing beneath a lamp swinging to one of the yards. He started, and involuntarily increased his weight upon his bearers. One of the two came forward a step towards the captain and, tapping a snuff-box, said: "Whom have we here, captain?"