With these I made such comradeship as I could, for I had no child friends. Kind creatures were most of them, at least so I found them. They were poor at “making believe,” but would always squeeze ten minutes from their work to romp with me, and that, perhaps, was healthier for me. What, perhaps, was not so good for me was that, staggered at the amount of “book-learning” implied by my conversation (for the journalistic instinct, I am inclined to think, was early displayed in me), they would listen open-mouthed to all my information, regarding me as a precocious oracle. Sometimes they would obtain permission to take me home with them to tea, generously eager that their friends should also profit by me. Then, encouraged by admiring, grinning faces, I would “hold forth,” keenly enjoying the sound of my own proud piping. “As good as a book, ain't he?” was the tribute most often paid to me. “As good as a play,” one enthusiastic listener, an old greengrocer, went so far as to say. Already I regarded myself as among the Immortals. One girl, a dear, wholesome creature named Janet, stayed with us for months and might have stayed years, but for her addiction to strong language. The only and well-beloved child of the captain of the barge “Nancy Jane,” trading between Purfleet and Ponder's End, her conversation was at once my terror and delight. “Janet,” my mother would exclaim in agony, her hands going up instinctively to guard her ears, “how can you use such words?” “What words, mum?” “The things you have just called the gas man.” “Him! Well, did you see what he did, mum? Walked straight into my clean kitchen, without even wiping his boots, the--” And before my mother could stop her, Janet had relieved her feelings by calling him it--or rather them--again, without any idea that she had done aught else than express in fitting phraseology a natural human emotion. We were good friends, Janet and I, and therefore it was that I personally undertook her reformation. It was not an occasion for mincing one's words. The stake at issue was, I felt, too important. I told her bluntly that if she persisted in using such language she would inevitably go to hell. “Then where's my father going?” demanded Janet. “Does he use language?” I gathered from Janet that no one who had enjoyed the privilege of hearing her father could ever again take interest in the feeble efforts of herself. “I am afraid, Janet,” I explained, “that if he doesn't give it up--” “But it's the only way he can talk,” interrupted Janet. “He don't mean anything by it.” I sighed, yet set my face against weakness. “You see, Janet, people who swear do go there.” But Janet would not believe. “God send my dear, kind father to hell just because he can't talk like the gentlefolks! Don't you believe it of Him, Master Paul. He's got more sense.”