arted from his new
friend, "we'll finish the argument another day. Meanwhile, don't forget
the hour--eight, sharp."

CHAPTER FOUR.

SHOWS HOW THE CAPTAIN CAME TO AN ANCHOR, AND CONCEIVED A DEEP DESIGN.

When Captain Wopper parted from his young friend, he proceeded along the
Strand in an unusually grave mood, shaking his head to such a degree, as
he reflected on the precocious wickedness of the rising generation, that
a very ragged and pert specimen of that generation, observing his
condition, gravely informed him that there was an hospital for
incurables in London, which took in patients with palsy and St. Wituses'
dance werry cheap.

This recalled him from the depths of sorrowful meditation, and induced
him to hail a cab, in which he drove to the docks, claimed his chest--a
solid, seamanlike structure, reminding one of the wooden walls of Old
England--and returned with it to the head of the lane leading to Grubb's
Court. Dismissing the cab, he looked round for a porter, but as no
porter appeared, the Captain, having been accustomed through life to
help himself, and being, as we have said, remarkably strong, shouldered
the nautical chest, and bore it to the top of Mrs Roby's staircase.

Here he encountered, and almost tumbled over, Gillie White, who saluted
him with--

"Hallo! ship aho-o-oy! starboard hard! breakers ahead! Why, Capp'n,
you've all but run into me!"

"Why don't you show a light then," retorted the Captain, "or blow your
steam-whistle, in such a dark hole? What's that you've got in your
arms?"

"The baby," replied Gillie.

"What baby?" demanded the Captain.

"_Our_ baby, of course," returned the imp, in a tone that implied the
non-existence of any other baby worth mentioning. "I brought it up to
show it to the sick 'ooman next door but one to Mrs Roby's cabin.
She's very sick, she is, an' took a great longing to see our baby, cos
she thinks it's like what her son was w'en _he_ was a baby. If he ever
was, he don't look much like one now, for he's six-feet nothin' in his
socks, an' drinks like a fish, if he don't do nothin' wuss. Good-night
Capp'n. Baby'll ketch cold if I keep on jawin' here. Mind your weather
eye, and port your helm when you reach the landin'. If you'll take the
advice of a young salt, you'll clew up your mainsail an' dowse some of
your top-hamper--ah! I thought so!"

This last remark, delivered with a broad grin of delight, had reference
to the fact that the