It was while we were sauntering along the port, pushing hard against a blustering northerly wind, and I was trying to get at the truth about Hanger’s affairs, advising him at every turn to grasp the bull by the horns, adopt strong measures, look his creditors full in the face—­the common counsel people give their friends, but so seldom apply in their own instance—­that we were accosted by a man who had just landed from the Folkestone boat.  He wanted a place—­yes, a cheap place—­where they spoke English and gave English fare.  Hanger hastened to refer him to his own British tavern, and, turning to me, said, “Must give Cross a good turn—­a useful fellow in an emergency.”

I returned with Hanger to the tavern, much against my will; but he insisted I should not give myself airs, but consent to be his guest to the extent of some bitter ale.  Cross’s new client was before a joint of cold beef, on the merits of which, combined with pickled onions, pickled by the identical hands of Mrs. Cross, Cross could not be prevailed upon to be quiet.

“Not a bad bit of beef,” said the stranger, helping himself to a prodigious slice.  “Another pint of beer.”

Cross carried off the tankard, and returned, still muttering—­“Not bad beef, I should think not—­nor bad ale neither.  Had the beef over from the old country.”

The stranger brought his fist with tremendous force upon the table, and roared—­“That’s right, landlord; that’s it; stick to that.”

Cross, thus encouraged, would have treated the company to a copious dissertation on the merits of British fare, had not the company chorused him down with—­“Now Cross is off!  Cross on beef!  Cross on beer!”

In a furious passion Cross left the room, rowing that he would be even with “the captain” before the day was over.  Hanger considered himself bound to ask the stranger whether he was satisfied with his recommendation.

“Couldn’t be better, thankee,” the stranger answered; “but the landlord doesn’t seem to know much about the place.  New comer, I suppose?”

“Was forty years ago,” the old captain said, looking round for a laugh; “but he doesn’t go out of the street once a month.”

“I asked him where Marquise was, and be hanged if he could tell me.  I want to know particularly.”

The major glanced at the captain, and the captain at a third companion.  Was somebody wanted?  Who was hiding at Marquise?

“Thought every fool knew that,” the captain said, in the belief that he had made a palpable hit.

“Every fool who lives in these parts, leastwise,” the stranger retorted.  “Perhaps you’ll direct me?’

“Now, look you here, sir,” the captain was proceeding, leisurely emphasizing each word with a puff of tobacco smoke.

But the stranger would not be patient.  He changed his tone, and answered, fiercely—­

“I’m in no mind for fun or chaff.  I’ve got d——­d serious business on hand; and if you can tell me how to get to Marquise, tell me straight off, and ha’ done with it—­and I shall be obliged to you.”  With this he finished his second tankard of ale.