“Bill!” she ses, in a choking sort o’ voice. “Bill!” I gave her a look that made her catch ’er breath, and I was just stepping through the wicket, when she laid hold of my coat and tried to hold me back. “Do you know wot you’re a-doing of?” I ses, turning on her. “Oh, Bill dear,” she ses, “don’t talk to me like that. Do you want to break my ’art? Arter all these years!” She pulled out a dirt-coloured pocket-’ankercher and stood there dabbing her eyes with it. One eye at a time she dabbed, while she looked at me reproachful with the other. And arter eight dabs, four to each eye, she began to sob as if her ’art would break. “Go away,” I ses, very slow. “You can’t stand making that noise outside my wharf. Go away and give somebody else a treat.” Afore she could say anything the potman from the Tiger, a nasty ginger-’aired little chap that nobody liked, come by and stopped to pat her on the back. “There, there, don’t take on, mother,” he ses. “Wot’s he been a-doing to you?” “You get off ’ome,” I ses, losing my temper. “Wot d’ye mean trying to drag me into it? I’ve never seen the woman afore in my life.” “Oh, Bill!” ses the woman, sobbing louder than ever. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” “’Ow does she know your name, then?” ses the little beast of a potman. I didn’t answer him. I might have told ’im that there’s about five million Bills in England, but I didn’t. I stood there with my arms folded acrost my chest, and looked at him, superior. “Where ’ave you been all this long, long time?” she ses, between her sobs. “Why did you leave your happy ’ome and your children wot loved you?” The potman let off a whistle that you could have ’eard acrost the river, and as for me, I thought I should ha’ dropped. To have a woman standing sobbing and taking my character away like that was a’most more than I could bear. “Did he run away from you?” ses the potman. “Ye-ye-yes,” she ses. “He went off on a vy’ge to China over nine years ago, and that’s the last I saw of ’im till to-night. A lady friend o’ mine thought she reckernized ’im yesterday, and told me.” “I shouldn’t cry over ’im,” ses the potman, shaking his ’ead: “he ain’t worth it. If I was you I should just give ’im a bang or two over the ’ead with my umberella, and then give ’im in charge.” I stepped inside the wicket—backwards—and then I slammed it in their faces, and putting the key in my pocket, walked up the wharf. I knew it was no good standing out there argufying. I felt sorry for the pore thing in a way. If she really thought I was her ’usband, and she ’ad lost me—— I put one or two things straight and then, for the sake of distracting my mind, I ’ad a word or two with the skipper of the John Henry, who was leaning against the side of his ship, smoking. “Wot’s that tapping noise?” he ses, all of a sudden. “’Ark!”