The customers gazed sternly at Sam as he sat open-mouthed listening to these fulsome but untimely praises. In every gathering there is sure to be one or two whose self-imposed mission it is to right wrongs, and one of this type present at once suggested returning the clothes to the rightful owner. His suggestion was adopted with enthusiasm, and a dozen men closed round the hapless Sam. “Outside, gentlemen, please,” said the barmaid hastily. They went out in a cluster, the stout seaman in the centre fighting like a madman, and nearly overturning three soldiers who were passing. Two of them were named Murphy and one O’Sullivan, and the riot that ensued took three policemen and a picket to subdue. Sam, glad of a chance to get away, only saw the beginning of it, and consumed by violent indignation, did not pause until he had placed half a dozen streets between himself and the scene of his discomfiture. He had no intention of breaking faith with the cook, but he had a pint and thought that circumstances justified it. Then he walked slowly up and down the street a little while, debating whether he should continue the search or return to the schooner. For a time he strolled on aimlessly, and then, resolving not to be defeated by the impertinences of Dick and the boy, paused before a high-class tavern and went in. Two or three well-dressed men, whose behavior contrasted favorably with that of the vulgar crew he had just left, shook their heads, but not unkindly, and he was about to leave when a big, black-bearded man entered. “That’s a poor game,” said the big man, glancing at the laces. “Yes, sir,” said Sam humbly. “You look as if you thrive on it,” said the man, somewhat sternly. “It’s only looks, sir,” said Sam, shaking his head as he walked to the door. “Drink, I s’pose,” said the other. “No, sir,” said Sam. “When did you taste food last?” continued the other. “Yesterday morning,” said Sam, clearing a soft piece of bread from his teeth with his tongue. “Could you take something?” inquired the other. Sam smiled expectantly and took a seat. He heard his new friend order a pot, and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, tried to think of something nice to say as he drank it. Then his blood froze in his veins, and his jaw dropped as the other came from the counter and held out half a loaf. “There, my man,” he said kindly, “put that inside you.” Sam took it and tried to put it into his pocket, and repeating his old tale about taking it home to the children, rose to depart. “You eat that, and I’ll give you a couple of loaves to take home to them,” said the other. The bread fell from Sam’s nerveless fingers and rolled on to the floor. A bystander picked it up, and wiping it on his coat, returned it to him. “Go on,” said the big man, taking a deep draught of his beer—“eat away.” “I must see my children eat first,” said Sam in a broken voice.