"
"The French prisoner!" said I.
"That's the man. He told Bogue, fair and straight, he was an
ex-prisoner, and off the _Wellinboro'_ transport, arrived that day
in harbour. He had money in his pocket--in Bogue's presence he
pulled out a fistful of gold--and he pitched a tale that he was bound
for his home, a little this side of Saltash, but couldn't face the
road in the clothes he wore. You'll admit that this was reasonable
when you've seen 'em, for I brought the suit along in the tail of the
tilbury. For a pound, Bogue fitted him up with an old suit of his
own--coat and waistcoat of blue sea-cloth, not much the worse for
wear, duck trousers, a tarpaulin hat, and a flannel shirt marked
J. B. (Bogue's Christian name is Jeremiah). The fellow had no shirt
when he presented himself--nothing between the bare buff and the
uniform coat that he wore buttoned across his chest. And here our
luck comes in. He was shy of stripping in Bogue's presence, and, on
pretence of feeling chilly, sent him out of the room for a glass of
hot grog. As it happened, Bogue met the waiting-maid in the passage,
coming out of the bar with a tray and half a dozen hot grogs that had
been ordered by customers in the tap-room.
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