The police never hunted
out that murderer; they were too busy hunting us.
I was not long alone. A beggarly looking young man came a few days
later, and said:
"I hear you have lost your mate Philip, and my mates have all gone
away and taken the tent with them; so I want to ask you to let me
stay in your tent until I can look round a bit."
This young man's name was David Beswick, but he was known simply as
"Bez." He was a harmonious tailor from Manchester; he played the
violoncello, also the violin; had a good tenor voice, and a talent
for the drama. He, and a man named Santley from Liverpool, had taken
leading parts in our plays and concerts on shipboard. Scott, the
artist, admired Bez; he said he had the head, the features, and the
talent of a Shakespeare. He had a sketch of Bez in his portfolio,
which he was filling with crooked trees, common diggers, and ugly
blackamoors. I could see no Shakespeare in Bez; he was nothing but a
dissipated tailor who had come out in the steerage, while I had
voyaged in the house on deck. I was, therefore, a superior person,
and looked down on the young man, who was seated on a log near the
fire, one leg crossed over the other, and slowly stroking his
Elizabethan beard. I said:
"Yes, Philip has left me, but I don't want any partner. I understand
you are a tailor by trade, and I don't think much of a tailor.
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