CHAPTER VI.
I STUMBLE INTO HORRORS.
It was exactly seven weeks later--that is to say, on the evening of June 18th, 1811--that as I stood in the doorway whistling _Come, cheer up, my lads_, to Mrs.Trapp's tame blackbird, the old Jew slop-dealer came shuffling up the alley and demanded word with my master.
His name was Rodriguez--"I.

Rodriguez, Marine Stores"-- and his shop stood at the corner of the Barbican as you turn into Southside Street.

He had an extraordinarily fine face, narrow, emaciated, with a noble hook to his nose (which was neither pendulous nor fleshy) and a black pointed beard divided by a line of grey.

We boys feared him, one and all: but in a furred cloak and skull-cap he would have made a brave picture.

The dirt of his person, however, was a scandal.
I told him that Mr.Trapp had walked over and taken the ferry to Cremyll, where his boat was fitting out for the summer.