"It is a ’ard life, a stevedore, what with the ’eat and ’urry and all. Me and my mates, we shifted two ’underd an’ twenty tons o’ sugar this very day. But I’m ’oping for a wink o’ sleep to-night. What with the pains so good and all. I could do with some sleep. Not that I wish the pore woman no ’arm. She bin a decent wife to me. But I seems to want some sleep. We shifted two ’underd an’ twenty tons o’ sugar to-day, me an’ my mates. I see you brought your tool kit, Doctor. I find it cold for the time o’ the year. Christ, but I do feel sleepy." "I think that I can promise you a wink or two," replied the doctor cheerfully. "You’ll be in bed and asleep before two o’clock." "Much obliged to you, Doctor, I’m sure, Doctor," said the stevedore gratefully. "Me aunt is certainly of opinion that the pains look very promising. I could do wiv a few hours’ sleep. Bin shifting sugar all the day. Two ’underd and twenty ton we moved, and there’s as much standin’ by what I got to punch into termorrow. I’m ’opin’ fur a gel." We came to Mulberry Street, wherein the residence of Mr. Potter could be immediately detected, by reason of the fact that its door stood open—a certain signal in this land of an expected visit from the doctor. We entered the open doorway, and were greeted cheerfully by auntie—an old, untidy, work-stained woman, very drunk. The stevedore conducted me into a dishevelled kitchen, musty and cramped and cobwebby. He accepted a cigarette, and spat into the fire, and looked at me stupidly. "Two ’underd an’ twenty ton!" he exclaimed. "Don’t I deserve some blessed sleep?" And there came from some adjacent place an answering moan. I looked through the door of the kitchen and into the grimy little passage beyond it, wherein an open door gave access to another room. The doctor was in this room, and auntie, and also, I supposed, the stevedore’s wife. There came from this apartment certain sounds as of joy and suffering commingled. It is but fair to state that most of the joyful sounds appeared to be uttered by auntie. Auntie had chased away dull care. It was, indeed, a perfectly refulgent auntie who subsequently lolloped in upon us, carrying a bundle. "’Ere y’ are, ole glum-face," chirruped auntie; "take young Joe. An’ mind as ’e don’t ’oller. Where you put that jug?" Mr. Potter seized the bundle, and, loosening its folds, exposed a rather maculate small boy, having the paternal cast of feature. "Look at ’is chest," observed the father simply. "This is ye’re sort for punchin’ into sugar. Auntie, where’s the other one?" "Alf," responded auntie, "is all right where ’e is. Alfie’s old enough to be’ave ’isself. Mind young Joe don’t ’oller. Where you put that jug?"