"Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. Thing's upset you a bit. I'm ashamed to say that I was too much terrified to scream out—but ran and hid myself. You will not have to wait long for the information. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle.
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