He had lost his left hand and forearm, which were
replaced by an iron hook projecting from a wooden socket, just visible in
his loose sleeve.
He was halfway through the second stanza when he noticed Desmond standing
at the angle of the hedge a few yards away. He fixed his merry eyes on
the boy, and, beating time with his hook, went on with the song in
stentorian tones:
"An ass, an ass, an Ass, an ASS,
Signed 'Governor Pitt, Fort George, Madras.'"
The others took up the chorus, and finally brought their tankards down
upon the deal with a resounding whack.
"Ahoy, Mother Wiggs, more beer!" shouted the big man.
Desmond went forward.
"Is this the Waterman's Rest?"
"Ay, ay, young gen'leman, and a blamed restful place it is, too, fit for
watermen what en't naught but landlubbers, speaking by the book, but not
fit for the likes of us jack tars. Eh, mateys?"
His companions grunted acquiescence.
"I have a message for Mr. Toley; is he here?"
"Ay, that he is. That's him at the table yonder.
"Mr. Toley, sir, a young gen'leman to see you."
Desmond advanced to the smaller table. The two men looked up from their
game of dominoes. One was a tall, lean fellow, with lined and sunken
cheeks covered with iron-gray stubble, a very sharp nose, and colorless
eyes; the expression of his features was melancholy in the extreme. The
other was a shorter man, snub-nosed, big-mouthed; one eye was blue, the
other green, and they looked in contrary directions.
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