"Sir," continued the stranger, removing the curly-brimmed hat with a
flourish, and bowing over the partition as well as he could,
"you don't happen to be a sailor--Royal Navy, do you?"
"No, sir," answered Barnabas.
"And your name don't happen to be Smivvle, does it?"
"No, sir," said Barnabas again.
"And yet," sighed the bewhiskered gentleman, regarding him with
half-closed eyes, and with his head very much on one side, "in spite
of your nose, and in spite of your chin, you are the counterpart, sir,
the facsimile--I might say the breathing image of a--ha!--of a
nephew of mine; noble youth, handsome as Adonis--Royal Navy--regular
Apollo; went to sea, sir, years ago; never heard of more; tragic,
sir--devilish tragic, on my soul and honor."
"Very!" said Barnabas; "but--"
"Saw you from the yard, sir, immediately struck by close resemblance;
flew here, borne on the wings of hope, sir; you 're quite sure your
name ain't Smivvle, are you?"
"Quite sure."
"Ah, well--mine is; Digby Smivvle, familiarly known as 'Dig,' at
your service, sir. Stranger to London, sir?"
"Yes," said Barnabas.
"Ha! Bad place, London, sink of iniquity! Full of rogues, rascals,
damn scoundrels,--by heaven, sharks, sir! confounded cannibals, by
George!--eat you alive.
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