We were bending over him to persuade him—­at first, with small success, for he continued to stare and mutter as our voices coaxed without penetrating his muddled intelligence—­when a party of ’longshoremen staggered into the taproom, escorting one of the returned prisoners, a thin, sandy-haired, foxy-looking man, with narrow eyes and a neck remarkable for its attenuation and the number and depth of its wrinkles.  This neck showed above the greasy collar of a red infantry coat, from which the badges and buttons had long since vanished; and for the rest the fellow wore a pair of dirty white drill trousers of French cut, French shoes, and a round japanned hat; but, so far as a glance could discover, neither shirt nor underclothing.  When the ’longshoremen called for drink he laughed with a kind of happy shiver, as though rubbing his body round the inside of his clothes, cast a quick glance at us in our dim corner, and declared for rum, adding that the Mayor of Falmouth was a well-meaning old swab, but his liquor wouldn’t warm the vitals of a baby in clouts.

As he announced this I fancied that our persuasions began to have effect on Captain Coffin, for his eyes blinked as in a strong light, and he seemed to pull himself together with a shudder; but a moment later he relapsed again and sat staring.

“Hallo!” said one of the ‘longshoremen.  “Who’s that you’re a-coaxin’ of, you two?  Old Coffin, eh?  Well, take the old shammick home, an’ thank ’ee.  We’re tired of ’en here.”

As I looked up to answer I saw the returned prisoner give a start, turn slowly about, and peer at us.  He seemed to be badly scared, too, for an instant; for I heard a sudden, sharp click in his throat—­

“E-e-eh?  Coffin, is it?  Danny Coffin?  Oh, good Lord!”

He came towards our corner, still peering, and, as he peered, crouching to that he spread his palms on his knees.

“Coffin?  Danny Coffin?” he repeated, in a voice that, as it lost its wondering quaver, grew tense and wicked and wheedling.

Captain Coffin’s face twitched, and it seemed to me that his eyes, though rigid, expanded a little.  But they stared into the stranger’s face without seeing him.

The fellow crouched a bit lower, and still lower, as he drew close and thrust his face gradually within a yard of the old man’s.

“Shipmate Danny—­messmate Danny—­tip us a stave!  The old stave, Danny!—­

     “‘And alongst the Keys o’ Mortallone!’”

As his voice lifted to it in a hoarse melancholy minor (times and again since that moment the tune has put me in mind of sea-birds crying over a waste shore), I saw the shiver run across Captain Coffin’s face and neck, and with that his sight came back to him, and he bounced upright from the settle, with a horrible scream, his hands fencing, clawing at air.

The prisoner dropped back with a laugh.  Mr. Goodfellow, at a choking sound, put out a hand to loosen Captain Coffin’s neckcloth; but the old man beat him off.