Saturday came, and brought the usual half-holiday.  We boarders celebrated it by a raid upon the back yard of Rogerses—­Bully Stokes being temporarily incapacitated by chicken-pox—­and possessed ourselves, after a gallant fight, of Rogerses’ football.  Superior numbers drove us back to our own door, where—­at the invocation of all the householders along Delamere Terrace—­the constable intervened; but we retained the spoil.

At the shut of dusk, as we kicked the football in triumph about our own back yard, Mrs. Stimcoe sought me out with a letter to be conveyed to Captain Branscome.  I took it and ran.

The lamplighter, going his rounds, met me at the corner of Killigrew Street and directed me to the alley in which the captain’s lodgings lay.  The alley was dark, but a little within the entrance my eyes caught the glimmer of a highly polished brass door-knocker, and upon this I rapped at a venture.

Captain Branscome opened to me.  The house had no passage.  Its front door opened directly upon a whitewashed room, with a round table in the centre, covered with charts.  On the table, too, stood a lamp, the light of which dazzled me for a moment.  On the walls hung the captain’s sword of honour (above the mantelpiece), a couple of bookshelves, well stored, and a panel with a ship upon it—­a brig in full sail—­carved in high relief and painted.  My eyes, however, were not for these, but for a man who sat at the table, poring over the charts, and lifted his head nervously to blink at me.  It was Captain Coffin.

While I stared at him Captain Branscome took the letter from me.  It contained some pieces of silver, as I knew from its weight and the feel of it—­five shillings, as I judged, or perhaps seven-and-sixpence.  As his hand weighed it I saw a sudden relief on his face, and realized how grey and pinched it had been when he opened the door to me.

He peised the envelope in his hand for a moment, then broke the seal very deliberately, took out the coins, and, as if weighing them in his palm, turned back to the table and laid Mrs. Stimcoe’s letter close under the lamp while he searched for his gold-rimmed spectacles. (There was a tradition at Stimcoe’s, by the way, that the London merchants, finding a small surplus of subscriptions in hand after purchasing the sword of honour, had presented him with these spectacles as a make-weight, and that he valued them no less.)

“Brooks,” said he, laying down the letter and pushing the spectacles high on his forehead while he gazed at me, “I want to ask you a question in confidence.  Had Mrs. Stimcoe any difficulty in finding this money?”

“Well, sir,” said I, “I oughtn’t perhaps to know it, but she pawned Stim—­Mr. Stimcoe’s Cicero this morning, the six volumes with a shield on the covers, that he got as a prize at Oxford.”

“Good Lord!” said Captain Branscome, slowly.  As if in absence of mind, he stepped to a side-cupboard and looked within.  It was bare but for a plate and an apple.  He took up the apple, and was about to offer it to me, but set it back slowly on the plate, and locked the cupboard again.  “Good Lord!” he repeated quietly, and, linking his hands under his coat-tails, strode twice backwards and forwards across the room.