“Mistake!” ses Bill Flurry. “Why, I tell you I talked to ’im. It was Charlie Pearce right enough; scar on ’is forehead and a wart on ’is left ear and all.” “It’s wonderful,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I can’t think where you got it all from.” “Got it all from?” ses Bill, staring at her. “Why, from ’im.” “Oh, of course,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I didn’t think of that; but that only makes it the more wonderful, doesn’t it?—because, you see, he didn’t go on the _Evening Star_.” “_Wot_?” ses George Hatchard. “Why you told me yourself—” “I know I did,” ses Mrs. Pearce, “but that was only just to spare your feelings. Charlie _was_ going to sea in her, but he was prevented.” “Prevented?” ses two or three of ’em. “Yes,” ses Mrs. Pearce; “the night afore he was to ’ave sailed there was some silly mistake over a diamond ring, and he got five years. He gave a different name at the police-station, and naturally everybody thought ’e went down with the ship. And when he died in prison I didn’t undeceive ’em.” She took out her ’andkerchief, and while she was busy with it Bill Flurry got up and went out on tiptoe. Young Alf got up a second or two arterwards to see where he’d gone; and the last Joe Morgan and his missis see of the happy couple they was sitting on one chair, and George Hatchard was making desprit and ’artrending attempts to smile. A DISTANT RELATIVE [Illustration] A DISTANT RELATIVE Mr. Potter had just taken Ethel Spriggs into the kitchen to say good-by; in the small front room Mr. Spriggs, with his fingers already fumbling at the linen collar of ceremony, waited impatiently. “They get longer and longer over their good-bys,” he complained. “It’s only natural,” said Mrs. Spriggs, looking up from a piece of fine sewing. “Don’t you remember—” “No, I don’t,” said her husband, doggedly. “I know that your pore father never ’ad to put on a collar for me; and, mind you, I won’t wear one after they’re married, not if you all went on your bended knees and asked me to.” He composed his face as the door opened, and nodded good-night to the rather over-dressed young man who came through the room with his daughter. The latter opened the front-door and passing out with Mr. Potter, held it slightly open. A penetrating draught played upon the exasperated Mr. Spriggs. He coughed loudly. “Your father’s got a cold,” said Mr. Potter, in a concerned voice. “No; it’s only too much smoking,” said the girl. “He’s smoking all day long.” The indignant Mr. Spriggs coughed again; but the young people had found a new subject of conversation. It ended some minutes later in a playful scuffle, during which the door acted the part of a ventilating fan. “It’s only for another fortnight,” said Mrs. Spriggs, hastily, as her husband rose. “After they’re spliced,” said the vindictive Mr. Spriggs, resuming his seat, “I’ll go round and I’ll play about with their front-door till—”