"Tis a pity about your leg, anyway," said Mr Penhaligon
sympathetically, and stared about the room. "Life's a queer
business," he went on after a pause, his eyes fixed on the old beam
whence the key depended. "To think that I be eatin' the last meal in
this old kitchen. An' yet so many have eaten meals here an' warmed
theirselves in their time. Yet all departed afore us! . . .
But anyway you'll be hereabouts: an' that'll be a cheerin' kind o'
thought, o' lonely nights--that you'll be hereabouts, with your eye
on 'em."

He lit a pipe and, whilst puffing at it, pricked up his ears to the
sound of wheels down the street. The brakes were arriving at the
bridge-end. He suggested that--his own kit being ready--they should
stroll down together for a look. Nicky-Nan did not dare to refuse.

The young Custom-house Officer, as he caught sight of Penhaligon
approaching in uniform, slipped down from the parapet of the bridge,
and sorted out his summons from the pile of blue papers in his hand.

"That's all right, my billy," Penhaligon assured him. "Don't want no
summons, more'n word that His Majesty has a use for me."

"Your allotment paper'll be made out when you get to St Martin's, or
else aboard ship."

"Right. A man takes orders in these days."

"But go back and fetch your kit," advised the Chief Officer of
Coastguard, who had strolled up. "The brake'll be arriving in ten