“I spoke of arf a sovereign just now,” continued the boatswain, impressively, “and when I tell you that I offer it to you to do a bit o' burgling, you'll see 'ow necessary it is for me to be certain of your honesty.” “_Burgling?_” gasped the astonished soldier. “_Honesty?_ 'Struth; are you drunk or am I?” “Meaning,” said the boatswain, waving the imputation away with his hand, “for you to pretend to be a burglar.” “We're _both drunk_, that's what it is,” said the other, resignedly. The boatswain fidgeted. “If you don't agree, mum's the word and no 'arm done,” he said, holding out his hand. “Mum's the word,” said the soldier, taking it. “My name's Ned Travers, and, barring cells for a spree now and again, there's nothing against it. Mind that.” “Might 'appen to anybody,” said Mr. Benn, soothingly. “You fill your pipe and don't go chucking good tobacco away agin.” Mr. Travers took the offered box and, with economy born of adversity, stooped and filled up first with the plug he had thrown away. Then he resumed his seat and, leaning back luxuriously, bade the other “fire away.” “I ain't got it all ship-shape and proper yet,” said Mr. Benn, slowly, “but it's in my mind's eye. It's been there off and on like for some time.” He lit his pipe again and gazed fixedly at the opposite hedge. “Two miles from here, where I live,” he said, after several vigorous puffs, “there's a little public-'ouse called the _Beehive_, kept by a lady wot I've got my eye on.” The soldier sat up. “She won't 'ave me,” said the boatswain, with an air of mild surprise. The soldier leaned back again. “She's a lone widder,” continued Mr. Benn, shaking his head, “and the _Beehive_ is in a lonely place. It's right through the village, and the nearest house is arf a mile off.” “Silly place for a pub,” commented Mr. Travers. “I've been telling her 'ow unsafe it is,” said the boatswain. “I've been telling her that she wants a man to protect her, and she only laughs at me. She don't believe it; d'ye see? Likewise I'm a small man—small, but stiff. She likes tall men.” “Most women do,” said Mr. Travers, sitting upright and instinctively twisting his moustache. “When I was in the ranks—” “My idea is,” continued the boatswain, slightly raising his voice, “to kill two birds with one stone—prove to her that she does want being protected, and that I'm the man to protect her. D'ye take my meaning, mate?” The soldier reached out a hand and felt the other's biceps. “Like a lump o' wood,” he said, approvingly. “My opinion is,” said the boatswain, with a faint smirk, “that she loves me without knowing it.” “They often do,” said Mr. Travers, with a grave shake of his head. “Consequently I don't want 'er to be disappointed,” said the other. “It does you credit,” remarked Mr. Travers.