“You mustn’t follow me,” said Sam, severely; “d’ye hear?” “All right, father,” said the boy, dutifully. “And don’t call me father,” vociferated Mr. Brown. “Why not?” inquired the youth, artlessly. Mr. Legge stopped suddenly, and, putting his hand on Mr. Green’s shoulder, gaspingly expressed his inability to go any farther. Mr. Green, patting his back, said he knew how he felt, because he felt the same, and, turning to Sam, told him he’d be the death of him if he wasn’t more careful. “If you don’t run away,” said Mr. Brown, harshly, as he turned to the boy, “I shall give you a hiding.” “Where am I to run to?” whimpered Master Jones, dodging off and on. “Run ’ome,” said Sam. “That’s where I’m going,” said Master Jones, following. “Better try and give ’im the slip, Sam,” said Mr. Legge, in a confidential whisper; “though it seems an unnatural thing to do.” “Unnatural? What d’ye mean?” demanded his unfortunate friend. “Wot d’ye mean by unnatural?” “Oh, if you’re going to talk like that, Sam,” said Mr. Legge, shortly, “it’s no good giving you advice. As you’ve made your bed, you must lay on it.” “How long is it since you saw ’im last, matey?” inquired Mr. Green. “I dunno; not very long,” replied the boy, cautiously. “Has he altered at all since you see ’im last?” inquired the counsel for the defence, motioning the fermenting Mr. Brown to keep still. “No,” said Billy, firmly; “not a bit.” “Wot’s your name?” “Billy,” was the reply. “Billy wot?” “Billy Jones.” Mr. Green’s face cleared, and he turned to his friends with a smile of joyous triumph. Sam’s face reflected his own, but Charlie Legge’s was still overcast. “It ain’t likely,” he said impressively; “it ain’t likely as Sam would go and get married twice in the same name, is it? Put it to yourself, ’Arry—would you? “Look ’ere,” exclaimed the infuriated Mr. Brown, “don’t you interfere in my business. You’re a crocodile, that’s wot you are. As for you, you little varmint, you run off, d’ye hear?” He moved on swiftly, accompanied by the other two, and set an example of looking straight ahead of him, which was, however, lost upon his friends. “’E’s still following of you, Sam,” said the crocodile, in by no means disappointed tones. “Sticking like a leech,” confirmed Mr. Green. “’E’s a pretty little chap, rather.” “Takes arter ’is mother,” said the vengeful Mr. Legge. The unfortunate Sam said nothing, but strode a haunted man down Nightingale Lane into Wapping High Street, and so to the ketch _Nancy Bell_, which was lying at Shrimpett’s Wharf. He stepped on board without a word, and only when he turned to descend the forecastle ladder did his gaze rest for a moment on the small, forlorn piece of humanity standing on the wharf. “Halloa, boy, what do you want?” cried the skipper, catching sight of him. “Want my father, sir—Sam,” replied the youth, who had kept his ears open.