"Beg pardon, mister, but is that a friend of yours?" he asked.

"No," said Dick.

"Well, he was signalin' somebody, an' it wasn't me."

Then remarking that the unknown craft looked like a curiously-colored
pirate, the captain squeezed himself into a seat. When the train ran
into and backed out of Cannon Street, Stump was puzzled. He opened the
carpet-bag, and drew forth a ship's compass, which he consulted. After
a few minutes' rapid traveling his doubts seemed to subside, and he
replaced the compass. Producing a cake of tobacco, he cut off several
shavings with an exceedingly sharp knife, rolled them between his broad
palms, filled a pipe, lit it, and whetted the knife on the side of his
boot. Dick noticed that all his actions were wonderfully nimble for a
man of his build. Any stranger who imagined that this squat Hercules
was slow and ponderous in movement would be wofully mistaken if he
based hostilities on that presumption.

Perhaps the captain missed the companionship of the stout lady he had
parted from at Charing Cross, or it might be that his gruffness was a
matter of habit--at any rate, after a puff or two, he spoke to Royson
again.

"D'ye know wot time we're due at Dover?" he asked.

"Yes, at 10.50."

"We don't stop long there?"