And another little matter had at the same time estranged Bealby from the tramp and linked the two of them together. The attentive reader will know that Bealby had exactly two shillings and twopence-halfpenny when he came down out of the woods to the fireside. He had Mrs. Bowles’ half-crown and the balance of Madeleine Philips’ theatre shilling, minus sixpence halfpenny for a collar and sixpence he had given the tramp for the soup overnight. But all this balance was now in the pocket of the tramp. Money talks and the tramp had heard it. He had not taken it away from Bealby, but he had obtained it in this manner: “We two are pals,” he said, “and one of us had better be Treasurer. That’s Me. I know the ropes better. So hand over what you got there, matey.” And after he had pointed out that a refusal might lead to Bealby’s evisceration the transfer occurred. Bealby was searched, kindly but firmly.... It seemed to the tramp that this trouble had now blown over completely. Little did he suspect the rebellious and treacherous thoughts that seethed in the head of his companion. Little did he suppose that his personal appearance, his manners, his ethical flavour—nay, even his physical flavour—were being judged in a spirit entirely unamiable. It seemed to him that he had obtained youthful and subservient companionship, companionship that would be equally agreeable and useful; he had adopted a course that he imagined would cement the ties between them; he reckoned not with ingratitude. “If anyone arsts you who I am, call me uncle,” he said. He walked along, a little in advance, sticking his toes out right and left in a peculiar wide pace that characterized his walk, and revolving schemes for the happiness and profit of the day. To begin with—great draughts of beer. Then tobacco. Later perhaps a little bread and cheese for Bealby. “You can’t come in ’ere,” he said at the first public house. “You’re under age, me boy. It ain’t my doing, matey; it’s ’Erbert Samuel. You blame ’im. ’E don’t objec’ to you going to work for any other Mr. Samuel there may ’appen to be abart or anything of that sort, that’s good for you, that is; but ’e’s most particular you shouldn’t go into a public ’ouse. So you just wait abart outside ’ere. _I’ll_ ’ave my eye on you.” “You going to spend my money?” asked Bealby. “I’m going to ration the party,” said the tramp. “You—you got no right to spend my money,” said Bealby. “I—’Ang it!—I’ll get you some acid drops,” said the tramp in tones of remonstrance. “I tell you, blame you,—it’s ‘Erbert Samuel.’ I can’t ’elp it! I can’t fight against the lor.” “You haven’t any right to spend my money,” said Bealby. “_Downt_ cut up crusty. ’Ow can _I_ ’elp it?” “I’ll tell a policeman. You gimme back my money and lemme go.” The tramp considered the social atmosphere. It did not contain a policeman. It contained nothing but a peaceful kindly corner public house, a sleeping dog and the back of an elderly man digging.