but his language became so awful that in fear and trembling I obeyed.
So soon as I was finished--it cost him two and fourpence, I
remember--we walked down to the docks together, and he told me stories
of the sea and land that made my blood run cold. Altogether, in the
course of three weeks or a month, we met about half a dozen times,
when much the same programme was gone through. I think I was a fairly
frank child, but I said nothing about him at home, feeling
instinctively that if I did there would be an end of our comradeship,
which was dear to me: not merely by reason of the pastry, though I
admit that was a consideration, but also for his wondrous tales. I
believed them all implicitly, and so came to regard him as one of the
most interesting criminals as yet unhanged: and what was sad about
the case, as I felt myself, was that his recital of his many
iniquities, instead of repelling, attracted me to him. If ever there
existed a sinner, here was one. He chewed tobacco--one of the hundred
or so deadly sins, according to my theological library--and was
generally more or less drunk. Not that a stranger would have noticed
this; the only difference being that when sober he appeared
constrained--was less his natural, genial self. In a burst of
confidence he once admitted to me that he was the biggest blackguard
in the merchant service. Unacquainted with the merchant service, as
at the time I was, I saw no reason to doubt him.

One night in a state of intoxication he walked over a gangway and was
drowned. Our mutual friend, the confectioner, seeing me pass the
window, came out to tell me so; and having heard, I walked on, heavy
of heart, and pondering.

About his eternal destination there could be no question. The known
facts precluded the least ray of hope. How could I be happy in