Captain Peter Quist, for some two or three days after his parting with Philip Chater, roamed about uneasily, in his search for a desirable circus which might happen to be for disposal, and which might possess the additional advantage of having attached to it a fat lady or two, who might not object to show herself, for a consideration, to a curious public. On more than one occasion, he entered into negotiations with gentlemen—usually hoarse as to voice, and inflamed as to countenance—who appeared, at first, to possess the very thing he wanted; whereupon, “toothfuls” were exchanged, and much conversation ensued.

But the guileless captain always discovered, when it came to actual business, that the “circus” consisted of a caravan or two, in a state of advanced dilapidation, up a yard; that the horses (if there had ever been any) were long since dead, or engaged in agricultural pursuits; that the clowns had long since left off being funny, and taken, for the most part, to itinerant preaching; that the fat ladies had retired from business—married the man who took the money at the doors—and started public-houses.

Some three or four days of such hopeless interviewing having reduced the Captain to a state of despondency, he cast about in his mind for something which should restore him to his usual condition of placid cheerfulness; and, having imbibed somewhat freely of his favourite beverage, and being then on the outskirts of those narrow and straggling little streets beyond the actual town of Woolwich, discovered that the river drew him, like a magnet—probably from the fact of his legs being somewhat unsteady, and causing him, for that reason, to imagine that they were sea-going, like his mind.

Wandering down some slippery stone steps, leading to a causeway of cobble-stones, and doing so at the imminent risk of his life, owing to his condition, the Captain precipitated himself on to the shoulders of a little man, who was seated on the top of a wooden post, with his chin propped in his hands, and who was gazing in a melancholy fashion at the water. The Captain, having saved both himself and the little man, by clasping him affectionately round the neck, broke into profuse apologies. And, indeed, they were necessary; for the little man—who was very shabby, and had no linen that was visible, but whose whiskers had a bedraggled air of having once been fashionable—was almost speechless with rage and fright; and danced about on the causeway, shaking his fist, and threatening—in a thin piping voice, and with many oaths—his vengeance upon the Captain.

“’Ere—’old ’ard, guv’nor—’old ’ard,” exclaimed the Captain. “This comes of gettin’ into bad company; I’m surprised at a man of your hage, usin’ all them naughty words; w’erever did yer learn ’em, mess-mate? It wasn’t my fault, Mister; the steps was a slide—an’ these ’ere stones is all bumps; an’ w’en a man comes from a slide to bumps—sudden-like—I puts it to you that ’e ain’t responsible for ’isself. An’ I ’umbly asks yer pardon.”

The little man, appearing somewhat appeased, sat down on his post again, and meditatively pulled at his whiskers—glancing round now and then at the Captain, as though apprehensive of his indulging in some other gymnastic performance. The Captain, for his part, being of a peaceful nature, began to make, overtures of friendliness—the more so that he had a dim notion in his brain that he had seen the little man on a previous occasion.

However, as the little man remained obstinately silent, despite all the Captain’s conversational overtures, that gentleman turned his attention to the boats, several of which were moored near at hand, with a man sitting near by, smoking, and keeping an eye upon them. This man, as a familiar spirit, the Captain accosted.

“Nice boats you’ve got ’ere,” said the Captain, casually.

“Ah”—responded the man, looking the Captain up and down—“the boats is all right.” By which he seemed to imply that somebody else was not.

“I suppose a man might ’ire a boat—eh?” was the Captain’s next enquiry.

“Do you fink they’re on this ’ere river for the kids to look at—or to pervide me with amoosement in bailin’ of ’em out?” asked the man, indignantly.

The Captain, meekly repudiating the idea that any such thought was in his mind, carried his enquiry a little further, by asking if he might “’ire one for a hour or so.”

“Can yer row?” asked the man, after a pause.

“Can I what?” shouted the Captain.

The man coolly repeated his question, and went on placidly smoking. The Captain, when he had recovered his breath, spoke with an unnatural calmness.

“P’raps, my man, you takes me for a omnibus conductor,” he said. “Bring round one of them boats, an’ steady ’er w’ile I gits in—will yer?”

The man, seeing that the Captain really meant business, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, got into one of the boats, and slowly pushed it from where it was moored until it bumped against the causeway. The Captain, in his delight at the prospect of being once more afloat, suddenly remembered the little man with the faded whiskers, who had sat all this time, absolutely unmoved, on his post.

“’Ere—mess-mate—let bygorns be bygorns—an’ come an’ ’ave a blow.” He clutched the little man by the arm, in a jocular fashion, and made as if to pull him towards the boat.

It unfortunately happened, however, that the little man was nearly asleep; being pulled from his seat with such violence, and so unexpectedly, he had only a dim idea of what was happening, and of where he was. Realising, however, that he was in the grip of a stronger man, he suddenly flung himself fiercely upon the Captain, driving that gentleman backwards towards the boat. The Captain, for his part, in an endeavour to protect himself, made a rough-and-tumble of it, and twisted the little man clean off his legs. Moreover, he twisted him too far; and, being very unsteady on his legs himself, fairly rolled with him off the causeway into the boat.

The man in charge of the boat—being, probably, very glad to get rid of them; and feeling, perhaps, that they had better be left to settle whatever differences they might have in their own fashion, immediately shoved the boat off; so that, by the time the Captain got his head out of the bottom of the boat, and sat up to look at his passenger, they were well out into the stream.

“This comes of keepin’ bad company,” murmured the Captain, ruefully rubbing the back of his head. “However, I asked you to come fer a blow—and you’ve come accordin’; but you needn’t ’ave bin in sich a ’urry, an’ come with sich a rush.”

With these words, the Captain took the oars, and dexterously pulled into the stream, out of the way of a lumbering barge—exchanging a little light and airy badinage with the man in charge of that craft as it passed him. The little man, who had been so unceremoniously taken for an airing, appeared to take the matter in good part; picked up his dilapidated silk hat from the bottom of the boat—put it on—and sat, grimly silent, watching the Captain.

“It’s a nice arternoon fer a row,” said the Captain pleasantly, as he pulled sturdily. “Ain’t yer glad you come alonger me, mess-mate?”

The little man murmured something uncomplimentary, and then was silent. The Captain, who began to feel the sobering effects of the breeze and the exercise, smiled upon him benignly, and pulled harder. After a long pause, the little man, who had been staring at him intently, nodded his head three or four times, and spoke again.

“I thought I’d seen you before,” he said, in his thin piping voice. “Now I’m sure of it. It was on Tuesday—and you were with that infernal Chater.”

The Captain almost dropped his oars in his astonishment. “Why—so it was!” he exclaimed. “You was a sittin’ at the table; I’d seed yer just afore the light went out.”

The little man, for some unknown reason, began to tremble; looked all about him, indeed, as though contemplating making a sudden exit from the boat. “What do you want with me?” he asked, in a whining voice.

“I don’t want nothink with yer,” replied the Captain, staring at him. “Thought you might like a turn on the river, in a friendly way—that’s all.”

“Don’t tell lies!” ejaculated the other. “I can tell you this: you won’t get any good out of me. I’m only a poor old man, who’s been unfortunate, and has fallen on evil days. If you think you’ll make anything out of me, you’re much mistaken. What do you want with me?”

The Captain looked at him in amazement; the little man’s terror appeared so strong. “W’y—wot do you take me for?” he asked.

“Oh—I know what you are,” cried the little man, wagging his head. “You’re a split—a detective—a policeman. I know what you are.”

The Captain stood up in the boat, and put himself in a fighting attitude. “Say that again—and I’ll knock you out of the boat!” he shouted. “I’d ’ave yer know that I’m a decent sailor-man—an’ a captain at that. ’Oo are you a callin’ a policeman?”

“The Shady ’un said so,” replied the little man, tremulously.

“That Shady gent said a good many things as ’e’ll ’ave to answer for,” said the Captain, sitting down again. “W’y, if I’d wanted to run yer in, I reckon I could ’ave picked yer up under my arm, an’ done it easy, without ’irin’ a boat for it——’Ullo—wot’s that?”

The boat, travelling slowly, had struck something—struck it softly, but sufficiently to send a slight quiver through its timbers. The Captain, backing water at once, peered over the side; dipped an oar deep, and swung the boat’s head round with a sturdy pull; leaned over, and caught at something bobbing near the surface of the water. His carelessness had gone in a moment; he was the quick, masterful man, used to a boat, and used to matters of life and death.

“Sit tight there,” he commanded. “’Ere—ketch this oar; that’s it—keep her steady. There’s a body ’ere!”

The mention of that seemed to stir something in the little man; he became all attention, in a moment, and watched the other’s movements with alert eyes.

“Can’t get ’im into the boat,” said the Captain, in a low voice. “’E’s dead—bin dead days, I should think. Throw me that line there.”

The little man obeying promptly, the Captain, leaning over the edge of the boat, made the line fast to that grim thing bobbing alongside; and then turned the boat’s head for the shore, and pulled hard. The little man in the stern was so interested in that grisly passenger, that he must needs go to the very end of the boat, at the imminent risk of losing his silk hat—and peer at the thing as it came along behind, making a wake in the water as it swept through it.

They happened, by this time, to be quite clear of the town, and to have come to a spot where the bank was low and flat, and where it was easy to run the boat ashore. This the Captain did, and together they leapt out—hauled the boat up—and afterwards hauled in the body.

As it came in on the line, hand over hand—seeming, in their imagination, to assist the operation horribly, by crawling up over the dank mud, the Captain and the little man bent forward together, to look at it; and started back, as one man, at the sight of the swollen, distorted features. For it was the body of Dandy Chater.

Dandy Chater—born to such good and prosperous things—having his beginnings in such fair and unclouded circumstances—to have come to this at last! Well for him, surely, that the mother, at whose knee he had lisped his childish supplications to Heaven, was dead, before this thing fronted the world, and grinned back at it so horribly! To be found like this—muddy—soiled—broken—awful—dead—by two strangers, far away from the fair and pleasant places through which he had wandered in his innocent boyhood!

The Captain—raising his head from the contemplation of what he believed to be the features of his dead friend Philip Crowdy—was confronted by the startled eyes of the little man with the faded whiskers. For a long minute, they stared at each other in silence; the thoughts of each were busy—for each had something to hide.

For his part, Captain Peter Quist—whatever his personal grief may have been—bore in remembrance certain words impressed strongly upon him by the supposed Philip Crowdy; an injunction laid upon him not to reveal who he was, or that he was living under another name. The Captain—good honest fellow that he was—had a very sincere regard for his friend; and, believing that he had, in a moment of indiscretion, got mixed up with some queer people, was glad to feel that he could bury the knowledge of it in his own breast, as surely as the dead man would be buried in his grave. Sorrowing for him as he did, and bitterly vengeful as he felt, in his heart, at the mere suspicion that there had been foul play, he yet had the philosophic feeling that it did not matter now, as the man was dead; and the gentle thought that it would be a vile thing to defame one no longer able to defend himself.

The little man—who was, of course, no other than the Dr. Cripps of “The Three Watermen”—had equally strong reasons for preserving silence. With that scene in the upper room of the little public-house still clearly before his mental vision, he saw, in this tragedy, the vengeance of some member or members of the gang—a vengeance prompted by fear that Dandy Chater had betrayed them. Being himself remarkably closely connected with that gang, he saw his own head in peril, if any stir were raised about this business. Therefore, it will be seen that the two men had equally strong reasons for saying nothing about the identity of the man who lay dead between them.

The Captain, however, being, in his sober moments, a cautious man, looked attentively at the other, and said slowly—“Bad business—this ’ere. Do you ’appen to know the gent?”

“No—never saw him in my life. How the devil should I?” stammered Cripps, with his teeth chattering.

“Nor me,” said the Captain. After a long pause, he asked—“Wot are we agoin’ to do with ’im?”

The question was answered for them, in an abrupt and startling manner; for another face—that of a very dirty, keen-eyed, ragged-headed urchin, whose bare feet had brought him silently over the muddy bank—was obtruded between them, and stared down into the face of the dead man. Before either of them had time to say a word, the urchin leapt to his feet again, with a cry, and scudded away in the direction of the nearest houses.

“That’s done it,” murmured the Captain, in a resigned voice; “we’ll ’ave a policeman ’ere, in no time.” Then, a sudden thought striking him, he looked at the little man, and asked slowly—“Wot’s your opinion of ’ookin’ it, mess-mate?”

Dr. Cripps appearing to be too dazed fully to comprehend the situation, the Captain took him by the shoulders—gave him a shake or two—and stated the case.

“We can’t do no good by stoppin’ ’ere,” he said. “We shall only be ’awled up at the hinquest, an’ asked awkward questions. Nobody ain’t seen us—’cept that young limb—an’ I doubt if ’e knows us again. Therefore—wot I ses is—into the boat with yer—an’ let’s cut our lucky!”

Cripps appearing to grasp this point, after some difficulty, they left the dead man on the shore, and pushed off the boat, and made for Woolwich. Going, without further mishap, up the stream, they landed at the causeway from which they had so unceremoniously started—apparently greatly to the surprise and satisfaction of the man to whom the boat belonged.

“Got back, yer see,” said the Captain, carelessly, as he stepped on to the causeway, and gave a hand to the little man.

“So I see,” replied the man, pocketing the money which the Captain handed to him. “’Ad a nice row?”

“Oh—so-so,” responded the Captain. “I should like to give you an ’int, young man,” he added. “W’en you’re a shovin’ orf a boat nex’ time, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to give a man a chance of settin’ down fust. It ain’t wot you’d call a ’ealthy style of rowin’, w’en you starts on the back of yer neck; it don’t some’ow give yer as good a chance, as if yer started sittin’ down, with a proper ’old on the oars. Good-arternoon!”

But, although the Captain was jocular, his heart was heavy; remembering the hiding and dodging process through which he had passed, in the company of the supposed Philip Crowdy, he began to see some dreadful tragedy—some foul play, which had caused the death of his friend. Yet, being but a simple seafaring man, and having a great dread of the power of the law, he saw himself in unheard-of difficulties, if he so much as attempted to stir in the matter. For had he not found the body—and then fled from it?

“From the look of that there body,” muttered the Captain to himself, as he strolled along, in the gathering twilight of the streets—“it’s bin in the water a day or two—in fact, it might ’ave bin longer, if I didn’t know as ’ow I’d seen poor old Phil on’y three days back. An’ to think as ’e was that strong an’ ’earty—an’ now!”

The Captain did not finish his sentence; he shuddered, at the remembrance of that awful staring thing he had left on the muddy bank of the Thames; and—feeling somewhat faint—looked about for a house of refreshment.

When he emerged, after imbibing several glasses of his favourite tonic, the world wore a brighter aspect; and the honest Captain, swaggering along the pavement, with an occasional lurch, as though a heavy gale of wind had struck him—had clean forgotten all about unpleasant bodies, or the chances and changes of this mortal life; had clean forgotten, in fact, anything but that the world was a good place, and decent rum a thing to be thankful for.

Now it happened, by some unlucky chance, that Philip Chater—drawn, by strong influence, to the scene of the tragedy which had been so vividly stamped upon his mind—came, that night, to Woolwich; merely wandering aimlessly, with no settled plan as to the future, or, indeed, as to the next hour. And it happened, too, that, walking slowly along a dark street, and coming to the corner of it, he cannoned against a man, who was rolling along swiftly, chanting a song in a very loud and very deep voice.

It was the Captain; and that gentleman no sooner caught sight of Philip, than his song stopped, in the very middle of a note; indeed, the note turned to a shriek, and Peter Quist, beating off the supposed apparition with both hands, backed away from it unsteadily; and then, recovering power of definite motion, fairly turned tail, and ran as if for his life—leaving Philip alone, at the corner of the street, staring after him in blank amazement.