'Upon my soul, you've been riding a fine horse, sir,' Drinkwater said in a loud voice. Fagan looked round at him and finally disengaged himself as Annie slipped back into her room. 'Heard you thrown a few times as you went over the fences.'

'What's it to you?' Fagan turned, his expression darkly belligerent.

'Nothing sir, nothing, except it puts a fellow off his own gallop. Have a drink,' Drinkwater held out the bottle. 'Cool yourself...'

Fagan stared at Drinkwater, frowning. 'Who the hell are you?'

'Captain Waters at your service, sir. Master of a barque lying in the stream. Waiting for a wind.' Drinkwater stepped towards Fagan, putting up his left arm with its coat, cane and hat to catch Fagan's elbow in a gesture of assumed friendship. 'Got a damned good rate for my freight, if I can run it,' he rattled on. 'If I can persuade those jacks-in-office of the Custom House that it's for Sweden.' He threw back his head and laughed, feeling the resistance in Fagan's demeanour relax. They made their way to the head of the stairs.

Fagan paused at the top and turned to his accoster. Drinkwater smiled to cover his anxiety; Fagan's next remark would show Drinkwater whether he had the slightest chance of success in this mad enterprise.

Fagan's irritation at the untimely encounter appeared to have gone. He affected a degree of casual interest in Drinkwater's drunken gossip.

'But it ain't for Sweden, eh, Cap'n? That your drift?' There was the trace of a brogue there, Drinkwater noted as he nodded. He held out the gin bottle again. 'Here,' he said, 'drink to my good fortune,' and he finished the sentence with a laugh.

'So where are you taking it? Somewhere the Custom House men wouldn't like, eh?'