I saw no more of him for nearly a week. When next I met him it was in
Gracechurch Street with a billbook chained to his waist.
Business took him over London Bridge and I accompanied him. He was very full
of the importance of that book and magnified it.
As we passed over the Thames we paused to look at a steamer unloading great
slabs of white and brown marble. A barge drifted under the steamer's stern and
a lonely cow in that barge bellowed.
Charlie's face changed from the face of the bank-clerk to that of an unknown
and--though he would not have believed this--a much shrewder man. He flung out
his arm across the parapet of the bridge, and laughing very loudly, said:
"When they heard our bulls bellow the Skroelings ran away!"
I waited only for an instant, but the barge and the cow had disappeared under
the bows of the steamer before I answered.
"Charlie, what do you suppose are Skroelings?"
"Never heard of 'em before. They sound like a new kind of seagull. What a chap
you are for asking questions!" he replied. "I have to go to the cashier of the
Omnibus Company yonder. Will you wait for me and we can lunch somewhere
together? I've a notion for a poem."
"No, thanks. I'm off. You're sure you know nothing about Skroelings?"
"Not unless he's been entered for the Liverpool Handicap.
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