“Ye fool,” snarled she under her breath as this last proposition met with its well-deserved appreciation from the loungers; “can’t ye see as they be all a-laughin’ at ye? ’Ow are ye goin’ for to get a sitivation without no character? Come ’long ’ome do, for mercy’s sake, and ’ave yer dinner and get to work.” She clutched at his arm to lead him away as she was sometimes able to do when he was in a good mood; for Jerry always found it easier to please anybody than to say them “nay,” and often would patiently do even his wife’s bidding—provided he was not in his cups—when he could, alas! descend even to the boot or the kitchen-poker at his need. But to-day, unluckily his wife was demanding submission when others were by to see, and these others the very ones over whom his wit had gained a supremacy of its own the night before in the hour of carouse. What man could brook this—least of all what man who had his position for popularity to maintain? He drew his arm away. “I tell ye the Major ’ll ’ave to be’ave very different to me afore I work for ’im agin,” reiterated he, and as the woman still nudged him: “You go and mind the children, Lucy,” he added loftily, “and leave me ’lone. Women-folk ain’t supposed to understand these ’ere things.” His supporters cheered him loudly at this, and he moved across towards them, but Lucy Wood was not easily to be set aside. She knew that her influence with _him_ was for the moment in abeyance, but she turned to her tormentors. “Ain’t ye ashamed o’ yerselves, a pack o’ idle young vagabonds, to sit there and make fun of a man as ’d ha’ been a good ’un enough if it weren’t for you and your likes?” cried she passionately. “If _you_ ’aven’t got no one to work for—though Lord knows there’s mothers dependin’ on ye if there ain’t wives and childer—can’t ye ’ave the grace to leave them alone as ’_as_?” The woman’s voice was breaking, if not her spirit, and she had to pause for breath. A little bantam cock of a man, older than the rest, took his pipe from his mouth and snarled out an ugly oath at her. Jerry, who wore a vexed look on his handsome face, murmured deprecatingly, “Easy, easy, mate!” but the man only retorted: “Well, send ’er ’ome and don’t be rid over by yer women-folk so meeklike, man,” and the giant, anxious to keep his good footing with his comrades, bid his wife once more be gone. “You come ’ome to yer dinner and leave talkin’ stuff as ye can’t act up to and I’ll let ye be,” was all she said, and added, catching a nasty look in the little man’s face, and seeing the ill effect it was having on her own man: “Oh, I know what ye be up to, Casey, and it won’t be the first time ye’ve played me a bad turn this way, if it be the last. But I don’t care for your bad words, not I! It be your sort as be the curse o’ my man, and I’ll save ’im from ye if I can.” It was an ill-judged remark, and she paid dearly for it.