As the Rogue sat, ever and again nodding himself off his balance, his recovery was always attended by an angry stare and growl, as if, in the absence of anyone else, he had aggressive inclinations towards himself. In one of these starts the cry of “Lock, ho! Lock!” prevented his relapse into a doze. Shaking himself as he got up like the surly brute he was, he gave his growl a responsive twist at the end, and turned his face downstream to see who hailed.

It was an amateur-sculler, well up to his work though taking it easily, in so light a boat that the Rogue remarked: “A little less on you, and you’d a’most ha’ been a Wagerbut”; then went to work at his windlass handles and sluices, to let the sculler in. As the latter stood in his boat, holding on by the boat-hook to the woodwork at the lock side, waiting for the gates to open, Rogue Riderhood recognized his “T’other governor,” Mr. Eugene Wrayburn; who was, however, too indifferent or too much engaged to recognize him.