“She said she 'ad been in love with me all along,” ses Sam, filling their glasses agin to cheer 'em up. “We went out arter tea and bought the engagement-ring, and then she got somebody to mind the shop and we went to the Pagoda music-'all.” “I 'ope you didn't pay much for the ring, Sam,” ses Ginger, who always got very kind-'arted arter two or three glasses o' whisky. “If I'd known you was going to be in such a hurry I might ha' told you before.” “We ought to ha' done,” ses Peter, shaking his 'ead. “Told me?” ses Sam, staring at 'em. “Told me wot?” “Why me and Peter gave it up,” ses Ginger; “but, o' course, p'r'aps you don't mind.” “Mind wot?” ses Sam. “It's wonderful 'ow quiet she kept it,” ses Peter. Old Sam stared at 'em agin, and then he asked 'em to speak in plain English wot they'd got to say, and not to go taking away the character of a woman wot wasn't there to speak up for herself. “It's nothing agin 'er character,” ses Ginger. “It's a credit to her, looked at properly,” ses Peter Russet. “And Sam'll 'ave the pleasure of bringing of 'em up,” ses Ginger. “_Bringing of 'em up?_” ses Sam, in a trembling voice and turning pale; “bringing who up?” “Why, 'er children,” ses Ginger. “Didn't she tell you? She's got nine of 'em.” Sam pretended not to believe 'em at fust, and said they was jealous; but next day he crept down to the greengrocer's shop in the same street, where Ginger had 'appened to buy some oranges one day, and found that it was only too true. Nine children, the eldest of 'em only fifteen, was staying with diff'rent relations owing to scarlet-fever next door. Old Sam crept back 'ome like a man in a dream, with a bag of oranges he didn't want, and, arter making a present of the engagement-ring to Ginger—if 'e could get it—he took the fust train to Tilbury and signed on for a v'y'ge to China. THE BOATSWAIN'S MATE Mr. George Benn, retired boatswain, sighed noisily, and with a despondent gesture, turned to the door and stood with the handle in his hand; Mrs. Waters, sitting behind the tiny bar in a tall Windsor-chair, eyed him with some heat. “My feelings'll never change,” said the boatswain. “Nor mine either,” said the landlady, sharply. “It's a strange thing, Mr. Benn, but you always ask me to marry you after the third mug.” “It's only to get my courage up,” pleaded the boatswain. “Next time I'll do it afore I 'ave a drop; that'll prove to you I'm in earnest.” He stepped outside and closed the door before the landlady could make a selection from the many retorts that crowded to her lips. After the cool bar, with its smell of damp saw-dust, the road seemed hot and dusty; but the boatswain, a prey to gloom natural to a man whose hand has been refused five times in a fortnight, walked on unheeding. His steps lagged, but his brain was active.