that in the next stage he would recover his eyesight, and at the same
time turn dangerously quarrelsome. If Mr. Goodfellow and I could
start him home quietly, he would have reason to thank us to-morrow.

We were bending over him to persuade him--at first, with small
success, for he continued to stare and mutter as our voices coaxed
without penetrating his muddled intelligence--when a party of
'longshoremen staggered into the taproom, escorting one of the
returned prisoners, a thin, sandy-haired, foxy-looking man, with
narrow eyes and a neck remarkable for its attenuation and the number
and depth of its wrinkles. This neck showed above the greasy collar
of a red infantry coat, from which the badges and buttons had long
since vanished; and for the rest the fellow wore a pair of dirty
white drill trousers of French cut, French shoes, and a round
japanned hat; but, so far as a glance could discover, neither shirt
nor underclothing. When the 'longshoremen called for drink he
laughed with a kind of happy shiver, as though rubbing his body round
the inside of his clothes, cast a quick glance at us in our dim
corner, and declared for rum, adding that the Mayor of Falmouth was a
well-meaning old swab, but his liquor wouldn't warm the vitals of a
baby in clouts.

As he announced this I fancied that our persuasions began to have
effect on Captain Coffin, for his eyes blinked as in a strong light,
and he seemed to pull himself together with a shudder; but a moment
later he relapsed again and sat staring.

"Hallo!" said one of the 'longshoremen. "Who's that you're a-coaxin'
of, you two? Old Coffin, eh? Well, take the old shammick home, an'
thank 'ee. We're tired of 'en here."