Desmond’s attention was drawn towards the larger table.  Rough as was the common seaman of George the Second’s time, the group here collected would have been hard to match for villainous looks.  One had half his teeth knocked out, another a broken nose; all bore scars and other marks of battery.

Among them, however, there was one man marked out by his general appearance and facial expression as superior to the rest.  In dress he was no different from his mates; he wore the loose blouse, the pantaloons, the turned-up cloth hat of the period.  But he towered above them in height; he had a very large head, with a very small squab nose, merry eyes, and a fringe of jet-black hair round cheeks and chin.

When he removed his hat presently he revealed a shiny pink skull, rising from short, wiry hair as black as his whiskers.  Alone of the group, he wore no love locks or greased pigtail.  In his right hand, when Desmond first caught sight of him, he held a tankard, waving it to and fro in time with his song.  He had lost his left hand and forearm, which were replaced by an iron hook projecting from a wooden socket, just visible in his loose sleeve.

He was halfway through the second stanza when he noticed Desmond standing at the angle of the hedge a few yards away.  He fixed his merry eyes on the boy, and, beating time with his hook, went on with the song in stentorian tones: 

“An ass, an ass, an Ass, an ass,
Signed ‘Governor Pitt, Fort George, Madras.’”

The others took up the chorus, and finally brought their tankards down upon the deal with a resounding whack.

“Ahoy, Mother Wiggs, more beer!” shouted the big man.

Desmond went forward.

“Is this the Waterman’s Rest?”

“Ay, ay, young gen’leman, and a blamed restful place it is, too, fit for watermen what en’t naught but landlubbers, speaking by the book, but not fit for the likes of us jack tars.  Eh, mateys?”

His companions grunted acquiescence.

“I have a message for Mr. Toley; is he here?”

“Ay, that he is.  That’s him at the table yonder.

“Mr. Toley, sir, a young gen’leman to see you.”

Desmond advanced to the smaller table.  The two men looked up from their game of dominoes.  One was a tall, lean fellow, with lined and sunken cheeks covered with iron-gray stubble, a very sharp nose, and colorless eyes; the expression of his features was melancholy in the extreme.  The other was a shorter man, snub-nosed, big-mouthed; one eye was blue, the other green, and they looked in contrary directions.  His hat was tilted forward, resting on two bony prominences above his eyebrows.

“Well?” said Mr. Toley, the man of melancholy countenance.

“I have a message from Captain Barker,” said Desmond.  “I am to say that he expects you and the men at Custom House Quay next Wednesday morning, high tide at five o’clock.”