“An old soldier,” I ses. “A man wot likes trouble and danger. His idea is to shoot the ghost and see wot ’appens.” “Shoot!” ses Joe. “Shoot a pore ’armless ghost. Does he want to be ’ung? Ain’t it enough for a pore man to be drownded, but wot you must try and shoot ’im arterwards? Why, you ought to be ashamed o’ yourself. Where’s your ’art?” “It won’t be shot if it don’t come on my wharf,” I ses. “Though I don’t mind if it does when I’ve got somebody with me. I ain’t afraid of anything living, and I don’t mind ghosts when there’s two of us. Besides which, the noise of the pistol ’ll wake up ’arf the river.” “You take care you don’t get woke up,” ses Joe, ’ardly able to speak for temper. He went off stamping, and grinding ’is teeth, and at eight o’clock to the minute, Ted Dennis turned up with ’is pistol and helped me take care of the wharf. Happy as a skylark ’e was, and to see him ’iding behind a barrel with his pistol ready, waiting for the ghost, a’most made me forget the expense of it all. It never came near us that night, and Ted was a bit disappointed next morning as he took ’is ninepence and went off. Next night was the same, and the next, and then Ted gave up hiding on the wharf for it, and sat and snoozed in the office instead. A week went by, and then another, and still there was no sign of Sam Bullet’s ghost, or Joe Peel, and every morning I ’ad to try and work up a smile as I shelled out ninepence for Ted. It nearly ruined me, and, worse than that, I couldn’t explain why I was short to the missis. Fust of all she asked me wot I was spending it on, then she asked me who I was spending it on. It nearly broke up my ’ome—she did smash one kitchen-chair and a vase off the parlour mantelpiece—but I wouldn’t tell ’er, and then, led away by some men on strike at Smith’s wharf, Ted went on strike for a bob a night. That was arter he ’ad been with me for three weeks, and when Saturday came, of course I was more short than ever, and people came and stood at their doors all the way down our street to listen to the missis taking my character away. I stood it as long as I could, and then, when ’er back was turned for ’arf a moment, I slipped out. While she’d been talking I’d been thinking, and it came to me clear as daylight that there was no need for me to sacrifice myself any longer looking arter a dead man’s watch and chain. I didn’t know exactly where Joe Peel lived, but I knew the part, and arter peeping into seven public-’ouses I see the man I wanted sitting by ’imself in a little bar. I walked in quiet-like, and sat down opposite ’im. “Morning,” I ses. Joe Peel grunted. “’Ave one with me?” I ses. He grunted agin, but not quite so fierce, and I fetched the two pints from the counter and took a seat alongside of ’im. “I’ve been looking for you,” I ses. “Oh!” he ses, looking me up and down and all over. “Well, you’ve found me now.” “I want to talk to you about the ghost of pore Sam Bullet,” I ses.