“Does he know you, then?”

“Know me!  In course he does.  Wasn’t I bo’sun’s mate on board the Indiaman as took him east twelve year ago or more?  That was afore I got this here button hook o’ mine.  Ay, I remember him well, a-trampin’ up an’ down deck with his hands in his pockets an’ his mouth set tight an’ his chin on his stock, never speakin’ to a soul, in the doldrums if ever a lad was.  Why, we all thought there was no more spirit in him than in the old wooden figurehead—­leastways, all but me.

“‘I may be wrong,’ says I to old Tinsley the bo’sun, ‘I may be wrong,’ says I, ’but I be main sure that young sad down-in-the-mouth have got a blazin’ fire somewhere in his innards.’

“Ay, and time showed it.  There was a lot of cadets aboard as poked fun at the quiet chap an’ talked him over, a-winkin’ their eyes.  From talkin’ it got to doin’.  One day, goin’ to his bunk, he found it all topsyversy, hair powder on his pillow, dubbin in his shavin’ cup, salt pork wropt up in his dressin’ gown.  Well, I seed him as he comed on deck, an’ his face were a sight to remember, pale as death, but his eyes a-blazin’ like live coals in the galley fire.  Up he steps to the cadet as was ringleader; how he knowed it I can’t tell you, but he was sure of it, same as I always am.

“‘Sir,’ says he, quiet as a lamb, ‘I want a word with you.’

“‘Dear me!’ says the cadet, ‘have Mr. Clive found his voice at last?’

“‘Yes, sir,’ says Clive, ‘he has, an’ something else.’

“Cook happened to be passin’ with a tray; a lady what was squeamish had been having her vittles on deck.  Mr. Clive cotched up a basin o’ pea soup what was too greasy for madam, and in a twink he sets it upside down on the cadet’s head.  Ay, ‘twas a pretty pictur’, the greasy yellow stuff runnin’ down over his powdered hair an’ lace collar an’ fine blue coat.  My eye! there was a rare old shindy, the cadet cursin’ and splutterin’, the others laughin’ fit to bust ’emselves.  The cadet out with his fists, but there, ‘twas no manner o’ use.  Mr. Clive bowled him over like a ninepin till he lay along deck all pea soup an’ gore.  There was no more baitin’ o’ Mr. Clive that voyage.

“‘Bo’sun,’ says I, ’what did I tell you?  I may be wrong, but that young Mr. Bob Clive’ll be a handful for the factors in Fort St. George.’”

While this narrative had been in progress, Desmond was walking with Bulger and his mates back towards the river.

“How was it you happened to be hereabouts so early?” asked Desmond.  “I didn’t expect to see you till tomorrow.”

Bulger winked.

“You wouldn’t axe if you wasn’t a landlubber, meanin’ no offense,” he said. “‘Tis last night ashore.  We sailor men has had enough o’ Waterman’s Rests an’ such like.  To tell you the truth, we gave Mr. Toley the slip, and now we be goin’ to have a night at the Crown an’ Anchor.”

“What about the press gang?”