“With pleasure, when I have just written three words to tell my people of my arrival,” answered the stranger; “however, I can do that as well there as here.”

And so eager did he seem for Richard’s society that he had pen and paper brought into the hotel divan, and from thence dispatched his note.

“Take one of my cigars,” said Richard, good-naturedly, offering his case.

“No, no,” replied the little man, shaking his head, and looking very grave; “you know my motto, Sir.”

“A cigar,” urged Richard, “is one of those things that one can accept even from a stranger without that sense of obligation from which you shrink so sensitively.  Seriously, my good Sir, I shall feel offended if you refuse me this small favor.”

“Sooner than that shall be, Sir, I’ll take your cigar,” said the little man.  He held it up to the light, and sniffed at it with great zest.  “This is no common brand, I reckon.”

“Well, it is better than you will get out of the waiter’s box, I dare say,” answered Richard, smiling; for his cigars, like every thing else he had about him, were of the best.

“Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do.  I’ll put this in my pocket, if you’ll allow me, young gentleman, for a treat when I get home.  After an early morning breakfast, I generally prefer a pipe;” and he produced one accordingly from his pocket.

The room was melancholy to the last degree, being lit only from a sky-light; relics of the last night’s dissipation, in the shape of empty glasses and ends of cigars, were still upon the small round tables; while a two-days-old newspaper was the only literature of which the apartment could boast.

“This place and hour would be dull enough, Sir, without your society,” observed Richard, genially.  “I don’t think I was ever up so early in my life before, nor in such a den of a place.”

“It’s reckoned a good inn, too, is the George and Vulture; but the life of a hotel, you see, don’t begin till later on in the day.”

“That’s a pity,” said Richard, laughing, “as I sha’n’t have the opportunity of seeing it at its best.  I hope to be away by 9.30, or 10 at latest.”

“Ah,” said the little man, “indeed!” His words were meaningless enough, but there was really a genuine air of interest in his tone.  He was a vulgar fellow, no doubt; but Richard rather liked him, mainly because it was evident that the other was captivated by him.  He had laid himself out to please John Trevethick and his friend Solomon for the last six months, without success, yet here was a man who had evidently appreciated him at once.  If he was but a bagman, or something of that sort, it was only the more creditable to his own powers of pleasing; and his vanity—­and Richard was as vain of his social attractions as a girl—­was flattered accordingly.  In his solitude and wretchedness, too, the society of this stranger had been very welcome.

“I am sorry,” said Richard, when they had passed some hours together, and it was getting near nine o’clock, “that I am obliged to leave Plymouth so soon.  It would have given me great pleasure if you could have come and dined with me; though, indeed, I fear I have already detained you from your family.  It was the act of a good Samaritan to keep me company so long, and I thank you heartily.”