Some said the bald headed man had been a ship's captain due to the strength and thickness of his build, others believed he had been a man-at-arms for some foreign m'lud for he understood strange tongues when they were spoken (though none had ever heard him utter one word and he was considered a mute) and had a way of curbing trouble before it escalated unnecessarily.
He worked methodically along the bar his wooden clogs banging on the floorboards as he took each proffered coin and threw it unerringly into a brass spittoon situated for the purpose between two barrels beneath the bar. He never gave change and not one man considered stealing the spittoon for his reputation demanded both fear and respect following an incident many years previously.
A drunkard, a visitor not attuned to the particular etiquette of The Nest, let his manners away with him and having spoken in unnecessary foulness to one of the serving girls, caught Pot by the shoulder angrily demanding a refill out of turn. As the bar about them fell still and silent Pot turned his cold cobalt eyes upon the wretched rat and those who knew him saw his hand reach slowly for a stiletto he kept tucked in his apron. Unheeding the motion the drunk began a challenge and flicked open his own switchblade but was stopped abruptly when, with the ease of a skilled swordsman Pot's blade flashed and plucked out the the eye of the drunkard. Pot then calmly cleaning the blade on his apron tucked it back into place and moved away to serve the next customer. The rat finding no help from the patrons staggered bleeding into the street and none more was heard of him.
No-one knew Pot had lost his tongue to a Spanish captain and escaped a pirate's noose in tropical lands through the sympathy of a native girl he instantly married though she died three days later of typhoid. That he could play a flute in duet with a songbird, was born in the Ottoman empire one of 23 children each of whom were sold in turn to merchant sailors or once played a hand of cards against a pig and lost all he owned on the two of spades.
He slept on a low filthy bunk amid the barrels and heady smell of hops in a small room separated from the bar by a ragged greying signal flag of the Blue Peter - 'come aboard for we are about to set sail'.
This was what drove him on each day, beneath the sweat stained mattress was a strongbox, hammered to the boards and locked by a heavy iron key Pot kept hidden in a secret nook cut into the chimney. Here he stowed away the days takings and one day Pot would be gone back to the sea and the strongbox would be empty - but not today.
