Twice or thrice before finishing his job he paused to listen again, but heard nothing.  Still in musing mood, he scraped up the loose coal that lay around the manhole, shovelled it in, re-fixed the cover, and tossed his shovel on board.  His next business was to fetch a horse from the stables at the Canal End and tow the boat back to her quarters; and having taken another glance around, he set off and up the towpath at a pretty brisk pace.  It would be five o’clock before he finished his work:  at six he had an engagement, and it would take him some time to wash and titivate.

Canal End Basin lay hard upon three-quarters of a mile up stream, and about half that distance beyond the bend of the Great Brewery—­a malodorous pool packed with narrow barges or monkey-boats—­a few loading leisurably, the rest moored in tiers awaiting their cargoes.  They belonged to many owners, but their type was well nigh uniform.  Each measured seventy feet in length, or a trifle over, with a beam of about seven; each was built with rounded bilges, and would carry from twenty-five to thirty tons of cargo; each provided, aft of its hold or cargo-well, a small cabin for the accommodation of its crew by day; and for five-sixths of its length each was black as a gondola of Venice.  Only, where the business part of the boat ended and its cabin began, a painted ribbon of curious pattern ornamented the gunwale, and terminated in two pictured stern-panels.

Wharves and storehouses surrounded the basin, or rather enclosed three sides of it, and looked upon the water across a dead avenue (so to speak) of cranes and bollards; buildings of exceedingly various height and construction, some tiled, others roofed with galvanised iron.  Almost every one proclaimed on its front, for the information of the stranger, its owner’s name and what he traded in; and the stranger, while making his choice between these announcements, had ample time to contrast their diversity of size and style with the sober uniformity that prevailed afloat.

The store and yard of Mr. Christopher Hucks stood at the head of the basin, within a stone’s-throw of the Weigh Dock, and but two doors away from the Canal Company’s office.  It was approached through folding-doors, in one of which a smaller opening had been cut for pedestrians, and through this, on his way to the stables in the rear, Mr. Sam Bossom entered.  He entered and halted, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, which, grimed as it was with coal grit, but further inflamed their red rims.  In the centre of the yard, which had been empty when he went to work, stood a large yellow caravan; and on the steps of the caravan sat a man—­a stranger—­peeling potatoes over a bucket.

“Hullo!” said Sam.

The stranger—­a long-faced man with a dead complexion, an abundance of dark hair, and a blue chin—­nodded gloomily.

“The surprise,” he answered, “is mutual.  If it comes to that, young man, you are not looking your best either; though doubtless, if washed off, it would reveal a countenance not sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought—­thought such as, alas! must be mine—­thought which, if acquainted with the poets, you will recognise as lying too deep for tears.”