"Oh, I say, won't Gaffer Hodge be in bed and asleep?"

"I don't think so. He doesn't seem to like to go to bed. He sits
up very late, and talks to the men when they start to go home from
the Red Dog. He likes to talk, you see. We'll soon know - that's
one thing. We'll be there now in no time."

Sure enough, the old man was still up when they arrived. He was
just saying goodnight, in a high, piping voice, to a little group
of men who had evidently been having a nightcap in the inn next to
his house. When he saw Jack he smiled. They were very good
friends, and the old man had found the boy one of his best
listeners. The Gaffer liked to live in the past, he was always
delighted when anyone would let him tell his tales of the things
he remembered.

"Good-evening, Gaffer," said Jack, respectfully. "This is my
friend, Dick Mercer. He's a Boy Scout from London."

"Knew it! Knew it!" said Gaffer Hodge, with a senile chuckle. "I
said they was from Lunnon this afternoon when I seen them fust!
Glad to meet you, young master."

Then Jack described Graves as well as he could from his brief
sight of him, and Dick helped by what he remembered.

"Did you see him come into town this afternoon, Gaffer?" asked
Jack.

"Let me think," said the old man. "Yes -- I seen 'un. Came