“Don’t you call me Sol, ’cos I won’t have it,” vociferated the landlord, standing over him with his fist clenched. “First thing to-morrow morning off you go.” “Off?” repeated the other in amazement. “Off? Whereto?” “Anywhere,” said the overwrought landlord; “so long as you get out of here, I don’t care where you go.” Mr. Wiggett, who was smoking a cigar, the third that evening, laid it carefully on the table by his side, and regarded him with tender reproach. “You ain’t yourself, Sol,” he said, with conviction; “don’t say another word else you might say things you’ll be sorry for.” His forebodings were more than justified, Mr. Ketchmaid indulging in a few remarks about his birth, parentage, and character which would have shocked an East-end policeman. “First thing to-morrow morning you go,” he concluded, fiercely. “I’ve a good mind to turn you out now. You know the arrangement I made with you.” “Arrangement!” said the mystified Mr. Wiggett; “what arrangement? Why, I ain’t seen you for ten years and more. If it ’adn’t been for meeting Cap’n Peters—” He was interrupted by frenzied and incoherent exclamations from Mr. Ketchmaid. “Sol Ketchmaid,” he said, with dignity, “I ’ope you’re drunk. I ’ope it’s the drink and not Sol Ketchmaid, wot I saved from the shark by ’aving my leg bit off, talking. I saved your life, Sol, an’ I ’ave come into your little harbour and let go my little anchor to stay there till I go aloft to join poor Sam Jones wot died with your name on ’is lips.” He sprang suddenly erect as Mr. Ketchmaid, with a loud cry, snatched up a bottle and made as though to brain him with it. “You rascal,” said the landlord, in a stifled voice. “You infernal rascal. I never set eyes on you till I saw you the other day on the quay at Burnsea, and, just for an innercent little joke like with Ned Clark, asked you to come in and pretend.” “Pretend!” repeated Mr. Wiggett, in a horror-stricken voice. “Pretend! Have you forgotten me pushing you out of the way and saying, ‘Save yourself, Sol,’ as the shark’s jaw clashed together over my leg? Have you forgotten ’ow—?” “Look ’ere,” said Mr. Ketchmaid, thrusting an infuriated face close to his, “there never was a Henery Wiggett; there never was a shark; there never was a Sam Jones!” “Never—was—a—Sam Jones!” said the dazed Mr. Wiggett, sinking into his chair. “Ain’t you got a spark o’ proper feeling left, Sol?” He fumbled in his pocket, and producing the remains of a dirty handkerchief wiped his eyes to the memory of the faithful black. [Illustration: “Wiped his eyes to the memory of the faithful black.”] “Look here,” said Mr. Ketchmaid, putting down the bottle and regarding him intently, “you’ve got me fair. Now, will you go for a pound?” “Got you?” said Mr. Wiggett, severely; “I’m ashamed of you, Sol. Go to bed and sleep off the drink, and in the morning you can take Henry Wiggett’s ’and, but not before.”