Mr. Ketchmaid looked up from his pipe and eyed him darkly; the shoemaker smiled serenely. “Another small bottle o’ lemonade, landlord,” he said, slowly. “Go and get your lemonade somewhere else,” said the bursting Mr. Ketchmaid. “I prefer to ’ave it here,” rejoined the shoemaker, “and you’ve got to serve me, Ketchmaid. A licensed publican is compelled to serve people whether he likes to or not, else he loses of ’is license.” “Not when they’re the worse for licker he ain’t,” said the landlord. “Certainly not,” said the shoemaker; “that’s why I’m sticking to lemonade, Ketchmaid.” The indignant Mr. Ketchmaid, removing the wire from the cork, discharged the missile at the ceiling. The shoemaker took the glass from him and looked round with offensive slyness. “Here’s the ’ealth of Henry Wiggett what lost ’is leg to save Mr. Ketchmaid’s life,” he said, unctuously. “Also the ’ealth of Sam Jones, who let hisself be speared through the chest for the same noble purpose. Likewise the health of Captain Peters, who nursed Mr. Ketchmaid like ’is own son when he got knocked up doing the work of five men as was drowned; likewise the health o’ Dick Lee, who helped Mr. Ketchmaid capture a Chinese junk full of pirates and killed the whole seventeen of ’em by—’Ow did you say you killed ’em, Ketchmaid?” The landlord, who was busy with the taps, affected not to hear. “Killed the whole seventeen of ’em by first telling ’em yarns till they fell asleep and then choking ’em with Henry Wiggett’s wooden leg,” resumed the shoemaker. “Kee—hee,” said a hapless listener, explosively. “Kee—hee—kee——” He checked himself suddenly, and assumed an air of great solemnity as the landlord looked his way. “You’d better go ’ome, Jem Summers,” said the fuming Mr. Ketchmaid. “You’re the worse for licker.” “I’m not,” said Mr. Summers, stoutly. “Out you go,” said Mr. Ketchmaid, briefly. “You know my rules. I keep a respectable house, and them as can’t drink in moderation are best outside.” “You should stick to lemonade, Jem,” said Mr. Clark. “You can say what you like then.” Mr. Summers looked round for support, and then, seeing no pity in the landlord’s eye, departed, wondering inwardly how he was to spend the remainder of the evening. The company in the bar gazed at each other soberly and exchanged whispers. “Understand, Ned Clark,” said the indignant Mr. Ketchmaid, “I don’t want your money in this public-house. Take it somewhere else.” “Thank’ee, but I prefer to come here,” said the shoemaker, ostentatiously sipping his lemonade. “I like to listen to your tales of the sea. In a quiet way I get a lot of amusement out of ’em.” “Do you disbelieve my word?” demanded Mr. Ketchmaid, hotly. “Why, o’ course I do,” replied the shoemaker; “we all do. You’d see how silly they are yourself if you only stopped to think. You and your sharks!—no shark would want to eat you unless it was blind.”