Clare took a pen, and, after being assured by his friend that what he wrote would be transmitted word for word, proceeded to write as follows:-- "_H.M.S. Stinger. Dear Polly, We paid off this morning. I will be with you, my dear, to-night. Your affectionate husband, Tom Clare._" Tom handed this to Jerry, who paid the sum demanded, and returned the receipt to his friend. "Do you think jist them words will go--Dear Polly? Don't you think they will alter it?" "Lord bless your foolish old head! why, if you wrote Chinee, them ere clerks would send it; they're awful clever. Why, they sends French and German. Of course they put dear!" When they arrived at the London Bridge Station they transferred their baggage, and Thompson sought out the guard, who proved to be an old school-mate. To him Jerry delivered the parrot and monkey, with directions to leave them at the Sandwich station, where Maxted the carrier would take charge of and convey them to his mother; and in order that the animals might not be neglected, he affixed the following notice to their cages:-- "_Live animals, with care. Give them a drink if they wants it, but don't blow them out with wittles._" The first part of their journey by the South Eastern Railway was a most pleasant one, as they made a number of acquaintances. Sometimes Jerry would nurse a fractious baby for a weary-looking mother, or take charge of an old woman while her husband fetched in the baggage. Then a pretty face attracted his attention, and he would sit and watch it until the girl turned away her head, or he was called to order by Tom. As they neared their journey's end, Clare became very much depressed, frequently asking the time, and fidgetting so, that Thompson had great difficulty in getting him to reply to his questions; however, at last he roused himself, and recognizing the places they were passing, became much more communicative. "That's Sandwich!" he observed, pointing out a Dutch-looking town, round which the railroad wound, as if fearing if it ran too close to the old place that it would wake up the Rip Van Winkle-like inhabitants. "Oh, that's Sandwich, is it? That's the original and only genuine ham, mustard, and bread-and-butter Sandwich, is it? Well, let us get out and have a glass of ale, shall we, Tom?" "You won't find no ale nearer than the Three Coltses," observed a railway labourer, who had just entered the carriage. "There's no beer, no nothing in that place, 'cept dead and buried people. The whole town is gone to sleep, and nothing won't wake it but a 'lection." Hearing this remark the passengers laughed, and the speaker finding Clare and his friend were sailors, generously proffered his tin bottle of beer, which was duly accepted by them. "So you're a Kingsdown man, are you?" said Tom, having entered into conversation with the navvy. "My wife lives at Kingsdown; her name is Clare. I'm Tom Clare. Perhaps you've heard of me?"