“K-K-K-Kch! K-Kch!” he said, explosively. “Talk English, not Chinese,” said Mr. Hatchard, sternly. 'K-k-k-kch! K-kch!' he Said, Explosively.' Mr. Sadler threw down the fire-shovel, and to Mr. Hatchard's great annoyance, clapped his open hand over his mouth and rocked with merriment. “Sh—sh—she—she—” he spluttered. “That'll do,” said Mr. Hatchard, hastily, with a warning frown. “Kow-towed to me,” gurgled Mr. Sadler. “You ought to have seen it, Alf. I shall never get over it—never. It's—no—no good win-winking at me; I can't help myself.” He put his handkerchief to his eyes and leaned back exhausted. When he removed it, he found himself alone and everything still but for a murmur of voices overhead. Anon steps sounded on the stairs, and Mr. Hatchard, grave of face, entered the room. “Outside!” he said, briefly. “What!” said the astounded Mr. Sadler. “Why, it's eleven o'clock.” “I can't help it if it's twelve o'clock,” was the reply. “You shouldn't play the fool and spoil things by laughing. Now, are you going, or have I got to put you out?” He crossed the room and, putting his hand on the shoulder of the protesting Mr. Sadler, pushed him into the passage, and taking his coat from the peg held it up for him. Mr. Sadler, abandoning himself to his fate, got into it slowly and indulged in a few remarks on the subject of ingratitude. “I can't help it,” said his friend, in a low voice. “I've had to swear I've never seen you before.” “Does she believe you?” said the staring Mr. Sadler, shivering at the open door. “No,” said Mr. Hatchard, slowly, “but she pretends to.” SELF-HELP The night-watchman sat brooding darkly over life and its troubles. A shooting corn on the little toe of his left foot, and a touch of liver, due, he was convinced, to the unlawful cellar work of the landlord of the Queen's Head, had induced in him a vein of profound depression. A discarded boot stood by his side, and his gray-stockinged foot protruded over the edge of the jetty until a passing waterman gave it a playful rap with his oar. A subsequent inquiry as to the price of pigs' trotters fell on ears rendered deaf by suffering. “I might 'ave expected it,” said the watchman, at last. “I done that man—if you can call him a man—a kindness once, and this is my reward for it. Do a man a kindness, and years arterwards 'e comes along and hits you over your tenderest corn with a oar.” 'E Comes Along and Hits You over Your Tenderest Corn With a Oar.'' He took up his boot, and, inserting his foot with loving care, stooped down and fastened the laces. Do a man a kindness, he continued, assuming a safer posture, and 'e tries to borrow money off of you; do a woman a kindness and she thinks you want to marry 'er; do an animal a kindness and it tries to bite you—same as a horse bit a sailorman I knew once, when 'e sat on its head to 'elp it get up. He sat too far for'ard, pore chap.