“I’d ’ave my other bit off for ’im, too,” said Mr. Wiggett, as the landlord patted him affectionately on the shoulder and thrust a glass of spirits into his hands. “Cheerful, I would. The kindest-’earted and the bravest man that ever breathed, is old Sol Ketchmaid.” He took the landlord’s hand again, and, squeezing it affectionately, looked round the comfortable bar with much approval. They began to converse in the low tones of confidence, and names which had figured in many of the landlord’s stories fell continuously on the listeners’ ears. “You never ’eard anything more o’ pore Sam Jones, I s’pose?” said Mr. Ketchmaid. Mr. Wiggett put down his glass. “I ran up agin a man in Rio Janeiro two years ago,” he said, mournfully. “Pore old Sam died in ’is arms with your name upon ’is honest black lips.” “Enough to kill any man,” muttered the discomfited Mr. Clark, looking round defiantly upon his murmuring friends. “Who is this putty-faced swab, Sol?” demanded Mr. Wiggett, turning a fierce glance in the shoemaker’s direction. “He’s our cobbler,” said the landlord, “but you don’t want to take no notice of ’im. Nobody else does. He’s a man who as good as told me I’m a liar.” “Wot!” said Mr. Wiggett, rising and stumping across the bar; “take it back, mate. I’ve only got one leg, but nobody shall run down Sol while I can draw breath. The finest sailor-man that ever trod a deck is Sol, and the best-’earted.” “Hear, hear,” said Mr. Smith; “own up as you’re in the wrong, Ned.” “When I was laying in my bunk in the fo’c’s’le being nursed back to life,” continued Mr. Wiggett, enthusiastically, “who was it that set by my side ’olding my ’and and telling me to live for his sake?—why, Sol Ketchmaid. Who was it that said that he’d stick to me for life?—why Sol Ketchmaid. Who was it said that so long as ’e ’ad a crust I should have first bite at it, and so long as ’e ’ad a bed I should ’ave first half of it?—why, Sol Ketchmaid!” He paused to take breath, and a flattering murmur arose from his listeners, while the subject of his discourse looked at him as though his eloquence was in something of the nature of a surprise even to him. “In my old age and on my beam-ends,” continued Mr. Wiggett, “I remembered them words of old Sol, and I knew if I could only find ’im my troubles were over. I knew that I could creep into ’is little harbour and lay snug. I knew that what Sol said he meant. I lost my leg saving ’is life, and he is grateful.” “So he ought to be,” said Mr. Clark, “and I’m proud to shake ’ands with a hero.” He gripped Mr. Wiggett’s hand, and the others followed suit. The wooden-legged man wound up with Mr. Ketchmaid, and, disdaining to notice that that veracious mariner’s grasp was somewhat limp, sank into his chair again, and asked for a cigar. “Lend me the box, Sol,” he said, jovially, as he took it from him. “I’m going to ’and ’em round. This is my treat, mates. Pore old Henry Wiggett’s treat.”