“Well, if you won’t be persuaded, and must have a boat, Owen,” observed the landlord, “there’s a waterman asleep on that bench will help you to as tidy a craft as any on the Thames.  Halloa, Ben!” cried he, shaking a broad-backed fellow, equipped in a short-skirted doublet, and having a badge upon his arm,—­“scullers wanted.”

“Holloa! my hearty!” cried Ben, starting to his feet.

“This gentleman wants a pair of oars,” said the landlord.

“Where to, master?” asked Ben, touching his woollen cap.

“Arundel Stairs,” replied Wood, “the nearest point to Wych Street.”

“Come along, master,” said the waterman.

“Hark ’ee, Ben,” said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; “you may try, but dash my timbers if you’ll ever cross the Thames to-night.”

“And why not, old saltwater?” inquired Ben, turning a quid in his mouth.

“’Cos there’s a gale a-getting up as’ll perwent you, young freshwater,” replied the tar.

“It must look sharp then, or I shall give it the slip,” laughed Ben:  “the gale never yet blowed as could perwent my crossing the Thames.  The weather’s been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I’ve never turned my back upon it.”

“May be not,” replied the old sailor, drily; “but you’ll find it too stiff for you to-night, anyhow.  Howsomdever, if you should reach t’other side, take an old feller’s advice, and don’t be foolhardy enough to venter back again.”

“I tell ’ee what, saltwater,” said Ben, “I’ll lay you my fare—­and that’ll be two shillin’—­I’m back in an hour.”

“Done!” cried the old sailor.  “But vere’ll be the use o’ vinnin’? you von’t live to pay me.”

“Never fear,” replied Ben, gravely; “dead or alive I’ll pay you, if I lose.  There’s my thumb upon it.  Come along, master.”

“I tell ’ee what, landlord,” observed the old sailor, quietly replenishing his pipe from a huge pewter tobacco-box, as the waterman and Wood quitted the house, “you’ve said good-b’ye to your friend.”

“Odd’s me! do you think so?” cried the host of the Trumpeter.  “I’ll run and bring him back.  He’s a Welshman, and I wouldn’t for a trifle that any accident befel him.”

“Never mind,” said the old sailor, taking up a piece of blazing coal with the tongs, and applying it to his pipe; “let ’em try.  They’ll be back soon enough—­or not at all.”

Mr. Wood and the waterman, meanwhile, proceeded in the direction of St. Saviour’s Stairs.  Casting a hasty glance at the old and ruinous prison belonging to the liberty of the Bishop of Winchester (whose palace formerly adjoined the river), called the Clink, which gave its name to the street, along which he walked:  and noticing, with some uneasiness, the melancholy manner in which the wind whistled through its barred casements, the carpenter followed his companion down an opening to the right, and presently arrived at the water-side.