"It's only to get my courage up," pleaded the boatswain. "Next time I'll
do it afore I 'ave a drop; that'll prove to you I'm in earnest."

He stepped outside and closed the door before the landlady could make a
selection from the many retorts that crowded to her lips.

After the cool bar, with its smell of damp saw-dust, the road seemed hot
and dusty; but the boatswain, a prey to gloom natural to a man whose hand
has been refused five times in a fortnight, walked on unheeding. His
steps lagged, but his brain was active.

He walked for two miles deep in thought, and then coming to a shady bank
took a seat upon an inviting piece of turf and lit his pipe. The heat
and the drowsy hum of bees made him nod; his pipe hung from the corner of
his mouth, and his eyes closed.

He opened them at the sound of approaching footsteps, and, feeling in his
pocket for matches, gazed lazily at the intruder. He saw a tall man
carrying a small bundle over his shoulder, and in the erect carriage, the
keen eyes, and bronzed face had little difficulty in detecting the old
soldier.

The stranger stopped as he reached the seated boatswain and eyed him
pleasantly.

"Got a pipe o' baccy, mate?" he inquired.

The boatswain handed him the small metal box in which he kept that
luxury.