This was literally true. The captain's breadth of beam had never been contemplated by the designers of South-Eastern railway carriages. Even when the door was open, he had to enter sideways, and the brass rail across the window rendered it a physical impossibility to thrust head and shoulders outside. The shrill whistle of a guard was answered by a colleague. "Take care of yourself, John," said Becky. "No fear! And mind you wait till the 'bus stops to-night. The other evening--" Royson never learnt what had befallen Mrs. Stump on that other evening. At the moment the train began to move, he saw a man peeping into the carriage as if he were looking for some one. He believed it was the private inquiry agent whom he had shaken off so effectively in Hyde Park. The gloom of the station, and the fact that the man's face was in shadow, made him doubtful, but as the train gathered speed, the watcher on the platform nodded to him and smiled derisively. Captain Stump had quick eyes. He turned to Royson. "Beg pardon, mister, but is that a friend of yours?" he asked. "No," said Dick. "Well, he was signalin' somebody, an' it wasn't me." Then remarking that the unknown craft looked like a curiously-colored pirate, the captain squeezed himself into a seat. When the train ran into and backed out of Cannon Street, Stump was puzzled. He opened the carpet-bag, and drew forth a ship's compass, which he consulted. After a few minutes' rapid traveling his doubts seemed to subside, and he replaced the compass. Producing a cake of tobacco, he cut off several shavings with an exceedingly sharp knife, rolled them between his broad palms, filled a pipe, lit it, and whetted the knife on the side of his boot. Dick noticed that all his actions were wonderfully nimble for a man of his build. Any stranger who imagined that this squat Hercules was slow and ponderous in movement would be wofully mistaken if he based hostilities on that presumption. Perhaps the captain missed the companionship of the stout lady he had parted from at Charing Cross, or it might be that his gruffness was a matter of habit--at any rate, after a puff or two, he spoke to Royson again. "D'ye know wot time we're due at Dover?" he asked. "Yes, at 10.50." "We don't stop long there?" "No. The boat sails ten minutes later." "Good. I don't cotton on to these blessed trains. Every time they jolt I fancy we're on the rocks. Give me a ship, an' the steady beat of the screw, sez I. Then I know where I am." "I quite agree with you, captain, but you must put up with a fair spell of railway bumping before you reach Marseilles." Stump gave him a questioning look. Royson did not resemble the type of land shark with which he was familiar. Yet his eyes gleamed like those of a perplexed bull. "I s'pose you heard my missus an' me talking of Marseilles," he growled, "but how do you know I'm a captain." "It is written on your bag." "Well, my missus wrote that--"