Mr. Richard Catesby, second officer of the ss. Wizard,
emerged from the dock-gates in high good-humour to
spend an evening ashore. The bustle of the day
had departed, and the inhabitants of Wapping, in search
of coolness and fresh air, were sitting at open doors
and windows indulging in general conversation with
any-body within earshot.
[Illustration: “Mr. Richard Catesby, second
officer of the ss. Wizard, emerged from the
dock-gates in high good-humour.”]
Mr. Catesby, turning into Bashford’s Lane, lost
in a moment all this life and colour. The hum
of distant voices certainly reached there, but that
was all, for Bashford’s Lane, a retiring thoroughfare
facing a blank dock wall, capped here and there by
towering spars, set an example of gentility which
neighbouring streets had long ago decided crossly was
impossible for ordinary people to follow. Its
neatly grained shutters, fastened back by the sides
of the windows, gave a pleasing idea of uniformity,
while its white steps and polished brass knockers were
suggestive of almost a Dutch cleanliness.
Mr. Catesby, strolling comfortably along, stopped
suddenly for another look at a girl who was standing
in the ground-floor window of No. 5. He went
on a few paces and then walked back slowly, trying
to look as though he had forgotten something.
The girl was still there, and met his ardent glances
unmoved: a fine girl, with large, dark eyes, and
a complexion which was the subject of much scandalous
discussion among neighbouring matrons.
“It must be something wrong with the glass,
or else it’s the bad light,” said Mr.
Catesby to himself; “no girl is so beautiful
as that.”
He went by again to make sure. The object of
his solicitude was still there and apparently unconscious
of his existence. He passed very slowly and
sighed deeply.
“You’ve got it at last, Dick Catesby,”
he said, solemnly; “fair and square in the most
dangerous part of the heart. It’s serious
this time.”
He stood still on the narrow pavement, pondering,
and then, in excuse of his flagrant misbehaviour,
murmured, “It was meant to be,” and went
by again. This time he fancied that he detected
a somewhat supercilious expression in the dark eyes—a
faint raising of well-arched eyebrows.
His engagement to wait at Aldgate Station for the
second-engineer and spend an evening together was
dismissed as too slow to be considered. He stood
for some time in uncertainty, and then turning slowly
into the Beehive, which stood at the corner, went
into the private bar and ordered a glass of beer.
He was the only person in the bar, and the land-lord,
a stout man in his shirt-sleeves, was the soul of
affability. Mr. Catesby, after various general
remarks, made a few inquiries about an uncle aged five
minutes, whom he thought was living in Bashford’s
Lane.
