“‘Look ’ere,’ ses Ginger, ‘are you going to tell me in plain English wot it’s all about, or are you not?’ “‘We’ve been in a little pub down Bow way, me an’ Peter,’ ses Sam, ‘and we’ll tell you more about it if you promise to join us an’ go shares. It’s kep’ by a widder woman whose on’y son—_red-’aired son_—went to sea twenty-three years ago, at the age o’ fourteen, an’ was never ’eard of arterwards. Seeing we was sailor-men, she told us all about it, an’ ’ow she still ’opes for him to walk into ’er arms afore she dies.’ “‘She dreamt a fortnit ago that ’e turned up safe and sound, with red whiskers,’ ses Peter. “Ginger Dick sat up and looked at ’em without a word; then ’e got up out o’ bed, an’ pushing old Sam out of the way began to dress, and at last ’e turned round and asked Sam whether he was drunk or only mad. “‘All right,’ ses Sam; ‘if you won’t take it on we’ll find somebody as will, that’s all; there’s no call to get huffy about it. You ain’t the on’y red-’edded man in the world.’ “Ginger didn’t answer ’im; he went on dressing, but every now and then ’e’d look at Sam and give a little larf wot made Sam’s blood boil. “‘You’ve got nothin’ to larf at, Ginger,’ he ses, at last; ‘the landlady’s boy ’ud be about the same age as wot you are now; ’e ’ad a scar over the left eyebrow same as wot you’ve got, though I don’t suppose _he_ got it by fighting a chap three times ’is size. ’E ’ad bright blue eyes, a small, well-shaped nose, and a nice mouth.’ “‘Same as you, Ginger,’ ses Peter, looking out of the winder. “Ginger coughed and looked thoughtful. “‘It sounds all right, mates,’ ’e ses at last, ‘but I don’t see ’ow we’re to go to work. I don’t want to get locked up for deceiving.’ “‘You can’t get locked up,’ ses Sam; ‘if you let ’er discover you and claim you, ’ow can you get locked up for it? We shall go in an’ see her agin, and larn all there is to larn, especially about the tattoo marks, and then—’ “‘_Tattoo marks!_’ ses Ginger. “‘That’s the strong p’int,’ ses Sam. ‘’Er boy ’ad a sailor dancing a ’ornpipe on ’is left wrist, an’ a couple o’ dolphins on his right. On ’is chest ’e ’ad a full-rigged ship, and on ’is back between ’is shoulder-blades was the letters of ’is name—C.R.S.: Charles Robert Smith.’ “‘Well, you silly old fool,’ ses Ginger, starting up in a temper, ‘that spiles it all. I ain’t got a mark on me.’ “Old Sam smiles at ’im and pats him on the shoulder. ‘That’s where you show your want of intelleck, Ginger,’ he ses, kindly. ‘Why don’t you think afore you speak? Wot’s easier than to ’ave ’em put on?’ “‘_Wot?_’ screams Ginger. ‘Tattoo _me_! Spile my skin with a lot o’ beastly blue marks! Not me, not if I know it. I’d like to see anybody try it, that’s all.’ [Illustration: “‘Wot?’ screams Ginger. ‘Tattoo _me?_”]