“Do, do try and speak low,” I whispered; “or we shall both be found out I’m stowing away myself!”

“Whew, laddie!  How long will ye have been in Liverpool?”

“Only to-day.  How long have you been here?”

“A week, and a sore week too.”

“You’ve no friends here, have you?”

“Freens, did ye say?  I’ve no freens nearer than Scotland.”

“You must have had a hard time of it,” I whispered.

“Ye may say so.  I’ve slept four nights in the docks, and never managed to stow till to-night.  There’s a watchman about.”

“I know,” said I.

“I shouldn’t have got in to-night, but the misconducted body’s asleep, though I’ll say it’s the first time I saw him sleeping these four days.  Eh, sirs! there’s an awful indifference to responsibility, when a man does a thing like yon.  But it’ll be whisky, I’m thinking; for I heard him at clishmaclavers with one of these randy, drucken old Eirishers.”

My blood boiled.  “She was not drunk!” said I.  “And she’s—­she’s a great friend of mine.”

“Whisht! whisht, man!  We’ll be heard.  I ask your pardon, I’m sure.”

I made no reply.  The Scotchman’s tone was unpleasantly dry.  Besides it was very difficult to give vent to one’s just indignation in whispers, and I still felt giddy, though I was resting my back against some of the lumber, rather comfortably.

“You’ll no be Eirish, yourself?” the Scotchman asked in his own accent, which was as strong in its way as Biddy’s.

“I’m English,” I said.

“Just so.  And edyucated, I dare say?”

“I suppose so.”

“Ye’ve not forgiven me that I wronged the old lady?  Indeed, but I ask your pardon, and hers no less.  It’s not for the best of us to sit in judgment on the erring, as my mother has often said to me, unless it comes in the plain path of duty.  But maybe your own temper would be a bit soored if your head was as light and your heart as sick as mine with starvation and hope deferred—­”

“Are you hungry?” I interrupted.

“I’ll not be sorry when we get a meal.”

“What have you had to-day?” I asked.

“I’ve been in the dock all day,” he answered evasively, “but I’m no great eater at the best of times, and I chewed two bits of orange-peel, not to speak of a handful of corn where there was a big heap had been spilt by some wasteful body or another, that had small thoughts of it’s coming to use.  Now hoo in this world’s a man to make honest profit on a commodity he entrusts—­”

“Sh! sh!  You’re raising your voice again,” said I.  “Where’s your hand?  It’s only a cake, but it’ll be better than nothing.”  And I held out the cake Biddy had made me put in my pocket.

“I’ll no take it from ye.  Keep it for your own needs; I’m harder than yourself, it’s likely,” he said, pushing my hand aside, and added almost peevishly, “but keep the smell of it from me.”