to judge by the Latin he quotes."

"Sure now, a scholard. Myself, I never had no book larnin' to speak of;
never got no further than pothooks an' hangers!"

He laughed as he lifted his hook. But he seemed to be disinclined for
further conversation. He buried his face in his tankard, and when he had
taken a long pull, set the vessel on the table and stared at it with a
preoccupied air. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of Desmond. The
other men were talking among themselves, and Desmond, having by this time
finished his mug of beer, rose to go on his way.

"Goodby, Mr. Bulger," he said; "we shall meet again next Wednesday."

"Ay, ay, sir," returned the man.

He looked long after the boy as he walked away.

"Supercargo!" he muttered. "Diggle! I may be wrong, but--"

Desmond had come through Southwark and across Clapham and Wimbledon
Common, thus approaching the Waterman's Rest from the direction of
Kingston. Accustomed as he was to long tramps, he felt no fatigue, and
with a boy's natural curiosity he decided to return to the city by a
different route, following the river bank. He had not walked far before
he came to the ferry at Twickenham. The view on the other side of the
river attracted him: meadows dotted with cows and sheep, a verdant hill
with pleasant villas here and there; and, seeing the ferryman resting on
his oars, he accosted him.