"Of course I do."
"Who is he?"
"A sailor."
"What is his name?" said Gwynplaine, interrupting.
"Tom-Jim-Jack," replied the inn-keeper.
Then, as he re-descended the steps at the back of the Green Box, to enter the inn, Master Nicless let fall this profound reflection, so deep as to be unintelligible: "What a pity that he is not a lord! He would make a famous scoundrel."
Otherwise, although established in the tavern, the group in the Green Box had in no way altered their manner of living, and maintained their isolated habits. Except a few words exchanged now and then with the tavern-keeper, they held no communication with any of the persons who were living, either permanently or temporarily, in the inn; and continued to hold themselves rigorously aloof.
During their stay at Southwark, Gwynplaine had made it his habit, after the performance and the supper of both family and horses,—when Ursus and Dea had gone to bed in their respective apartments,—to enjoy the fresh air of the bowling-green a little, between eleven o'clock and midnight. A certain restlessness of spirit impels us to take walks at night, and to saunter about under the stars. There is a mysterious expectancy in youth. Hence it is that we are prone to wander out in the night, without an object. At that hour there was no one in the fair-ground, except, perhaps, some reeling drunkard, making wavering shadows in dark corners. The empty taverns were shut up, and the lower room in the Tadcaster Inn was dark, except where, in some corner, a solitary candle lighted a last reveller. A faint light gleamed through the window-shutters of the half-closed tavern as Gwynplaine, pen-
