Mr. Stimcoe gazed around in sorrow rather than in anger.  He cleared his throat for a public speech; but was forestalled by the constable’s dispersing the throng with a “Clear along, now, like good fellows!”

The wide-mouthed man helped me into my jacket, shook hands with me, and said I had no science, but the devil’s own pluck-and-lights.  Then he, too, faded away into the night; and I found myself alongside of Doggy Bates, marching up the street after Mr. Stimcoe, who declaimed, as he went, upon the vulgarity of street-fighting.

By-and-by it became apparent that in the soothing flow of his eloquence he had forgotten us; and Doggy Bates, who understood his preceptor’s habits to a hair, checked me with a knowing squeeze of the arm, and began, of set purpose, to lag in his steps.  Mr. Stimcoe strode on, still audibly denouncing and exhorting.

“It was all my fault!” Master Bates pulled up and studied my mauled face by the light of a street-lamp.  “The beggar heard me shouting his own name, silly fool that I was!”

I begged him not to be distressed on my account.

“What’s the use of half a fight?” he groaned again.  “My word, though, won’t Stimcoe catch it from the missus!  She sent him out to get change for your aunt’s notes—­’fees payable in advance.’  I know the game—­to pay off the bailey; and he’s been soaking in a public-house ever since.  Hallo!”

We turned together at the sound of footsteps approaching after us up the street.  They broke into a run, then appeared to falter; and, peering into the dark interval between us and the next lamp, I discerned Captain Coffin.  He had come to a halt, and stood there mysteriously beckoning.

“You—­I want you!” he called huskily.  “Not the other boy!  You!”

I obeyed, having a reputation to keep up in the eyes of Doggy Bates; but my courage was oozing as I walked towards the old man, and I came to a sudden stop about five yards from him.

“Closer!” he beckoned.  “Good boy, don’t be afraid.  What’s your name, good boy?”

“Harry Brooks, sir.”

“Call me ‘sir,’ do you?  Well, and you’re right.  I could ride in my coach-and-six if I chose; and some day you may see it.  How would you like to ride in your coach-and-six, Harry Brooks?”

“I should like it finely, sir,” said I, humouring him.

“Yes, yes, I’ll wager you would.  Well, now—­come closer.  Mum’s the word, eh?  I like you, Harry Brooks; and the boys in this town “—­he broke off and cursed horribly—­“they’re not fit to carry slops to a bear, not one of ’em.  But you’re different.  And, see here:  any time you’re in trouble, just pay a call on me.  Understand?  Mind you, I make no promises.”  Here, to my exceeding fright, he reached out a hand, and, clutching me by the arm, drew me close, so that his breath poured hot on my ear, and I sickened at its reek of brandy.  “It’s money, boy—­money, I tell you!”