“Yes, it is strange,” replied the boy, vaguely aware of the change of manner.  “But Mr. Diggle has ways of his own.”

“This Mr. Diggle, now; I may be wrong, but I should say—­yes, he’s short, with bow legs and a wart on his cheek?”

“No, no; you must be thinking of some one else.  He is tall, rather a well-looking man; he hasn’t a wart, but there is a scar on his brow, something like yours.”

“Ah, I know they sort; a fightin’ sort o’ feller, with a voice like—­which I say, like a nine pounder?”

“Well, not exactly; he speaks rather quietly; he is well educated, too, to judge by the Latin he quotes.”

“Sure now, a scholard.  Myself, I never had no book larnin’ to speak of; never got no further than pothooks an’ hangers!”

He laughed as he lifted his hook.  But he seemed to be disinclined for further conversation.  He buried his face in his tankard, and when he had taken a long pull, set the vessel on the table and stared at it with a preoccupied air.  He seemed to have forgotten the presence of Desmond.  The other men were talking among themselves, and Desmond, having by this time finished his mug of beer, rose to go on his way.

“Goodby, Mr. Bulger,” he said; “we shall meet again next Wednesday.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” returned the man.

He looked long after the boy as he walked away.

“Supercargo!” he muttered.  “Diggle!  I may be wrong, but—­”

Desmond had come through Southwark and across Clapham and Wimbledon Common, thus approaching the Waterman’s Rest from the direction of Kingston.  Accustomed as he was to long tramps, he felt no fatigue, and with a boy’s natural curiosity he decided to return to the city by a different route, following the river bank.  He had not walked far before he came to the ferry at Twickenham.  The view on the other side of the river attracted him:  meadows dotted with cows and sheep, a verdant hill with pleasant villas here and there; and, seeing the ferryman resting on his oars, he accosted him.

“Can I get to London if I cross here?” he asked.

“Sure you can, sir.  Up the hill past Mr. Walpole his house; then you comes to Isleworth and Brentford, and a straight road through Hammersmith village—­a fine walk, sir, and only a penny for the ferryman.”

Desmond paid his penny and crossed.  He sauntered along up Strawberry Hill, taking a good look at the snug little house upon which Mr. Horace Walpole was spending much money and pains.  Wandering on, and preferring bylanes to the high road, he lost his bearings, and at length, fearing that he was going in the wrong direction, he stopped at a wayside cottage to inquire the way.

He was farther out than he knew.  The woman who came to the door in answer to his knock said that, having come so far, he had better proceed in the same direction until he reached Hounslow, and then strike into the London road and keep to it.