repairs, he paused by a formless shape covered by tarpaulins.

"I've seen a few things in the way of boats, but this 'ere's a--well,
what do you make of it?" He pulled the tarpaulin back, and disclosed a
vessel whose hull was nearing completion. I did not ask if it was
Pascoe's work. It was such an amusing and pathetic surprise, that,
with the barge-builder's leering face turned to me waiting for my
guess, there was no need to answer. "He reckons," said the
barge-builder, "that he can do a bit of cruising about the mouth of the
Thames in that. 'Bout all she wants now is to have a mast fitted, and
to keep the water out, and she'll do." He chuckled grimly. Her lines
were crude, and she had been built up, you could see, as Pascoe came
across timber that was anywhere near being possible. Her strakes were
a patchwork of various kinds of wood, though when she was tarred their
diversity would be hidden from all but the searching of the elements.
It was astonishing that Pascoe had done so well. It was still more
astonishing that he should think it would serve.

"I've given him a hand with it," remarked the barge-builder, "an' more
advice than the old 'un 'ud take. But I dessay 'e could potter about
with the dam' tub round about as far as Canvey, if 'e keeps it out of
the wash of the steamers. He's been at this job two years now, and I
shan't be sorry to see my yard shut of it. . . . Must humour the old
boy, though. . . . Nigglin' job, mending boots, I reckon. If I mended
boots, I'd 'ave to let orf steam summow. Or go on the booze."

I felt hurt that Pascoe had not taken me into his confidence, and that
his ship, so far as I was concerned, did not exist. One Saturday
evening, when I called, his room was in darkness. Striking a match,
there was his apron shrouding his hobbing foot. This had never