Captain Johns, pacified by the change of subjects, answered simply that
Willy, the tobacconist at the corner of Fenchurch Street, had sent him
along.

Willy, his shop, and the very house in Fenchurch Street, I believe, are
gone now. In his time, wearing a careworn, absent-minded look on his
pasty face, Willy served with tobacco many southern-going ships out of
the Port of London. At certain times of the day the shop would be full
of shipmasters. They sat on casks, they lounged against the counter.

Many a youngster found his first lift in life there; many a man got
a sorely needed berth by simply dropping in for four pennyworth of
birds'-eye at an auspicious moment. Even Willy's assistant, a redheaded,
uninterested, delicate-looking young fellow, would hand you across
the counter sometimes a bit of valuable intelligence with your box of
cigarettes, in a whisper, lips hardly moving, thus: "The _Bellona_,
South Dock. Second officer wanted. You may be in time for it if you
hurry up."

And didn't one just fly!

"Oh, Willy sent him," said Captain Ashton. "He's a very striking man. If
you were to put a red sash round his waist and a red handkerchief round
his head he would look exactly like one of them buccaneering chaps that
made men walk the plank and carried women off into captivity. Look out,
Johns, he don't cut your throat for you and run off with the _Sapphire_.
What ship has he come out of last?"

Captain Johns, after looking up credulously as usual, wrinkled his
brow, and said placidly that the man had seen better days. His name was