take it as what he might
call (and did) call a libbaty, there was a good many bad characters
knocking about Portsmouth, pickpockets included, and especially at
fair-time.

"Fair-time?" I asked.

"At the back of the town--Kingston way--you will find it," said he, with a
jerk of the thumb.

"But," said I, "the frigate might send off a boat for us."

"Not a chance of it to-night, sir," said the waiter. "The southerly
breeze has been bringing up a fog these two hours past, and the inside of
the harbour is thick as soup. More by token, I've already sent word to
the chambermaid to fill a couple of warming-pans. You're booked with us,
gentlemen, till to-morrow morning."

Sure enough, descending to the street, we found it full of fog; and either
the fog was of remarkable density, or Portsmouth furnished with the worst
street-lamps in the world, for we had not walked five hundred yards before
it dawned on me that to find our hostelry again might not be an entirely
simple matter. Maybe the port wine had induced a haze of its own upon my
sense of locality. I fancied, too, that the fresh air was affecting
Hartnoll, unless his gait feigned a sea-roll to match his uniform.
I felt a delicacy in asking him about it.

Another thing that surprised me was the emptiness of the streets. I had
always imagined Portsmouth to be a populous town . . . but possibly its
inhabitants were congregated around the fair, towards which we set
ourselves to steer, guided by the tunding of distant drums. It mattered
little If we lost our bearings, since everybody in Portsmouth must know
the Blue Posts.

"Tell you what it is, Rodd," said Hartnoll, pulling up in a by-street and
picking his words deliberately,--"tell you what accounts for it,"--he waved
a hand at the emptiness surrounding us. "It's the press. Very night for
it; and the men all hiding within doors."

"Nonsense," said I. "It's a deal likelier to be the Fat Woman or the
Two-headed Calf."

"It's the press," insisted Hartnoll: and for the moment, when we emerged
out of a side lane upon a square filled with flaring lights, the crashing
of drums and cymbals, and the voices of showmen yelling in front of their
booths, I had a suspicion that he was right. One or two women, catching
sight of our uniforms, edged away swiftly, and, as they went, peered back
into the darkness of the lane behind us. A few minutes later, as we
dodged around the circumference of the crowd in search of