Sam obeyed him easily, and departing in silence, went off raving to the nearest boot-shop to buy more laces. Taught by experience, he put some of his new stock in his pocket, and with a couple of pairs in his hand, entered the next tavern on his beat. The bar was pretty full, but he pushed his way in, and offering his wares in a perfunctory fashion, looked round carefully for any signs of Captain Gething. “Outside!” said a smart barmaid with a toss of her head as she caught sight of him. “I’m goin’, miss,” said Sam, blushing with shame. Hitherto most barmaids had treated him with kindness, and in taverns where his powers were known, usually addressed him as “sir.” “Down on your luck, mate?” said a voice as he turned to go. “Starvin’, sir,” said Sam, who was never one to trouble about appearances. “Sit down,” said his new friend, with a nod at the barmaid, who was still regarding the seaman in a hostile fashion. Sam sat down and mentally blessed the reservation regarding free drinks as his benefactor turned to the bar and gave his order. His eyes beamed softly with a mixture of gratitude and amusement as his new friend came back with a pint of ale and half a loaf of bread. “Get through that, old chap,” said the man as he handed him the bread; “and there’s some more where that came from.” He sat down opposite, and taking a long pull at the pewter, watched with a kind smile to see the famished seaman eat. He noted as a strange fact that starving men nibble gently at the outside crust first, and then start on small, very small, mouthfuls of crumb, instinct rather than reason probably warning them of the dangers of a surfeit. For a few minutes Sam, with one eye on the pewter and the other on the door, struggled to perform his part. Then he rose, and murmuring broken thanks, said he would take some home to his wife and children. “Never mind your wife and children,” said his benefactor, putting down the empty pewter. “You eat that up and I’ll give you a couple of loaves to take home to them.” “My ’art’s too full to eat,” said Sam, getting a little nearer the door. “He means his stomach,” said a stern but youthful voice which the unhappy seaman knew only too well. He turned smartly and saw the face of Henry peering over the partition, and beside it the grinning countenance of Dick. “He was on our ship this afternoon,” continued his youthful tormentor as he scrambled still higher up the partition, and getting one arm over, pointed an accusing finger at Sam, who had been pushed back into his seat. “We gave him a lovely dinner, an’ arter he’d eat it he went off on the quiet in one of our chaps’ clothes.” “That’s right, mates,” said the delighted Dick, nodding at the audience. “One of our chaps named Sam,” went on Henry—“one of the best an’ kindest ’earted chaps that ever breathed.” “Regular brick he is,” assented Dick. “Fine, big ’ansome man, he is,” said Henry, “and this chap’s got his clothes on.”