it?"

"They'd have done that--no doubt of it--if I'd only thought o' askin'
them. I forgot all about it."

"Ah, that's all very fine--a likely tale; but I don't believe a word of
it. If they cared to have you in their ship, they'd have given you the
wherewithal to git there. But, come! it's no use shilly-shallyin' any
longer. The landlord won't like it. He's gin his orders sharp: Pay or
go."

"Well, I suppose I must go."

"You must; an', as I have already said, the sooner you're off the
better."

After delivering this stern ultimatum, the bar-keeper jauntily returns
behind his bar, to look more blandly on two guests who have presented
themselves at it, called for "brandy smashes," and tossed down a couple
of dollars to pay for them.

Harry Blew turns towards the door; and, without saying another word,
steps out of the room.

Once on the street, he does not stop or stand hesitating. The
hospitality of the so-called "home" has proved a sorry sham; and,
indignant at the shabby treatment received, he is but too glad to get
away from the place. All his life used to snug quarters in a fine
ship's forecastle, with everything found for him, he has never before
experienced the pang of having no place to lay his head. He not only
feels it now, in all its unpleasantness, but fancies the passers-by can
tell all about the humiliating position he is placed in.

Haunted by this fancy--urged on by it--he quickens his steps; nor stays
them till out of sight of the "Sailor's Home," out of the street in
which the detestable tavern stands. He even dislikes the idea of having
to go back for his chest; which, however, he must some time do.

Meanwhile what is to become of him for the remainder of that night?
Where is he to obtain supper, and a bed? About the latter he cares the
least; and having had no dinner and but a spare breakfast he is hungry--
half-famished--and could eat a pound or two of the saltest and toughest
junk ever drawn out of a ship's cask.

In this unhappy frame of body as of mind he strays on along the street.
There is no lack of food before his eyes, almost within reach of his
hand; but only to tantalise, and still further whet the edge of his
appetite. Eating-houses are open all around him; and under their
blazing gas-jets he can see steaming dishes, and savoury joints, in the
act of being set upon tables surrounded by guests seeming hungry as
himself, but otherwise better off. He, too, might ente