“Well,” said I, perhaps rather ungallantly, “I suppose I may as well do that as sit and look at you.” “Oh, I don’t mind being looked at,” returned Sinfai, “but you might help with the fire at the same time,—jest see what I do, and if you make some like them, we’ll have her going in no time.” Hereupon she took a piece of dry deal from an old box and split from it a slip; this she deftly cut from one end almost to the other in a series of leafy shavings around it, and in such a manner that each shaving remained attached to the stick. Together we prepared a number of these and arranged them in a conical pile, each one having the detached end of the chips downward, and a match was applied. “Got him!” exclaimed Sinfai in her impulsive way as we fed the flames, at first with small twigs, then with larger pieces, and although there was a superabundance of pungent smoke, we had also a cheery, crackling fire. The kettle was now filled and hung upon the crane, the potatoes were cut into thick slices and set cooking with some meat in the frying-pan. A saucepan was next half-filled with water in readiness for a smoked haddock Vardomescro _père_ was expected to bring. “Listen!” said Sinfai, “there’s dad coming,” and, although at the moment I could hear nothing to indicate the approach of any living thing, the lapse of a few minutes proved the superior keenness of her hearing, for I began to catch—very indistinctly at first—snatches of the old fellow’s favourite song, “Poor old Joe.” “Ah! here he comes,” added Sinfai as he approached; “he’s allus ’appy.” In this instance, however, the ’appiness had some connection with refreshment recently imbibed. Extracting a small parcel from his coat pocket he handed it to her, saying— “There y’are, nice bit o’ fish that. I couldn’t get no haddicks ’cept fillets, and that little lot cost me fourteen pence with a kipper for meself.” Turning to me he continued— “I can’t stand haddick, yer know, but a kipper nicely smoked, with a lot o’ bread and butter, that’s what I like.” At this juncture the “missis” appeared carrying a large basket which contained,—beside a few oddments of lace and thread, mending wool, shoe laces and reels of cotton,—some loaves of bread and other eatables. Mention should be made, by the way, of the hawker’s licence, which, carefully stowed away in an envelope, was always left in the basket in case it should be necessary or advisable to demonstrate that her sole means of subsistence was the peddling of lace and other small wares. There can be no doubt that dukkerin paid best. The man was about to seat himself preparatory to partaking of the meal, when his wife—noticing the dirty state of his hands—told him in a forcible manner that he should not “sit down to tea with hands like that.” Looking in my direction, and, assuming a manner evidently intended to appear as an apology for his wife’s outburst, the man observed— “Ain’t she obsurd now her ole man’s come home.”