“Have you visited the place before?”

“Some years ago.  Unless there are any old hands on view tonight, I don’t think I shall be spotted.”

He wore a heavy and threadbare overcoat, which was several sizes too large for him, a muffler, and a weed cap—­the outfit supplied by Seton Pasha; and he had a very vivid and unpleasant recollection of his appearance as viewed in his little pocket-mirror before leaving Seton’s room.  As they proceeded across the muddy wilderness towards the light which marked the site of Dougal’s, they presented a picture of a sufficiently villainous pair.

The ground was irregular, and the path wound sinuously about mounds of rubbish; so that often the guiding light was lost, and they stumbled blindly among nondescript litter, which apparently represented the accumulation of centuries.  But finally they turned a corner formed by a stack of rusty scrap iron, and found a long, low building before them.  From a ground-floor window light streamed out upon the fragments of rubbish strewing the ground, from amid which sickly weeds uprose as if in defiance of nature’s laws.  Seton paused, and: 

“What is Dougal’s exactly?” he asked; “a public house?”

“No,” rapped Kerry.  “It’s a coffee-shop used by the dockers.  You’ll see when we get inside.  The place never closes so far as I know, and if we made ’em close there would be a dock strike.”

He crossed and pushed open the swing door.  As Seton entered at his heels, a babel of coarse voices struck upon his ears and he found himself in a superheated atmosphere suggestive of shag, stale spirits, and imperfectly washed humanity.

Dougal’s proved to be a kind of hut of wood and corrugated iron, not unlike an army canteen.  There were two counters, one at either end, and two large American stoves.  Oil lamps hung from the beams, and the furniture was made up of trestle tables, rough wooden chairs, and empty barrels.  Coarse, thick curtains covered all the windows but one.  The counter further from the entrance was laden with articles of food, such as pies, tins of bully-beef, and “saveloys,” while the other was devoted to liquid refreshment in the form of ginger-beer and cider (or so the casks were conspicuously labelled), tea, coffee, and cocoa.

The place was uncomfortably crowded; the patrons congregating more especially around the two stoves.  There were men who looked like dock laborers, seamen, and riverside loafers; lascars, Chinese, Arabs, and dagoes; and at the “solid” counter there presided a red-armed, brawny woman, fierce of mien and ready of tongue, while a huge Irishman, possessing a broken nose and deficient teeth, ruled the “liquid” department with a rod of iron and a flow of language which shocked even Kerry.  This formidable ruffian, a retired warrior of the ring, was Dougal, said to be the strongest man from Tower Hill to the River Lea.

As they entered, several of the patrons glanced at them curiously, but no one seemed to be particularly interested.  Kerry wore his cap pulled well down over his fierce eyes, and had the collar of his topcoat turned up.