"Ah," said Ford, looking about him, "you've bin pretty comf'table. Them chairs an' things"--jerking his pipe toward them--"was hers--mine that is to say, speaking straight, and man to man." He sat down, puffing meditatively at his pipe, and presently: "Well," he continued, "'ere I am agin, ol' Bob Ford dead an' done for--gawn down in the _Mooltan_. On'y I _ain't_ done for, see?"--and he pointed the stem of his pipe at Simmons's waistcoat,--"I ain't done for, 'cause why? Cons'kence o' bein' picked up by a ol' German sailin'-'utch an' took to 'Frisco 'fore the mast. I've 'ad a few years o' knockin' about since then, an' now"--looking hard at Simmons--"I've come back to see my wife." "She--she don't like smoke in 'ere," said Simmons, as it were at random. "No, I bet she don't," Ford answered, taking his pipe from his mouth, and holding it low in his hand. "I know 'Anner. 'Ow d'you find 'er? Do she make ye clean the winders?" "Well," Simmons admitted uneasily, "I--I do 'elp 'er sometimes, o' course." "Ah! An' the knives too, I bet, an' the bloomin' kittles. I know. Wy"--he rose and bent to look behind Simmons's head--"s'elp me, I b'lieve she cuts yer 'air! Well, I'm damned! Jes' wot she would do, too." He inspected the blushing Simmons from divers points of vantage. Then he lifted a leg of the trousers hanging behind the door. "I'd bet a trifle," he said, "she made these 'ere trucks. Nobody else 'ud do 'em like that. Damme--they're wuss'n wot you're got on." The small devil began to have the argument all its own way. If this man took his wife back perhaps he'd have to wear those trousers. "Ah!" Ford pursued, "she ain't got no milder. An' my davy, wot a jore!" Simmons began to feel that this was no longer his business. Plainly, 'Anner was this other man's wife, and he was bound in honor to acknowledge the fact. The small devil put it to him as a matter of duty. "Well," said Ford suddenly, "time's short an' this ain't business. I won't be 'ard on you, matey. I ought prop'ly to stand on my rights, but seein' as you're a well-meanin' young man, so to speak, an' all settled an' a-livin' 'ere quiet an' matrimonual, I'll"--this with a burst of generosity--"damme, yus, I'll compound the felony, an' take me 'ook. Come, I'll name a figure, as man to man, fust an' last, no less an' no more. Five pound does it." Simmons hadn't five pounds--he hadn't even five pence--and he said so. "An' I wouldn't think for to come between a man an' 'is wife," he added, "not on no account. It may be rough on me, but it 's a dooty. _I'll_ 'ook it." "No," said Ford hastily, clutching Simmons by the arm, "don't do that. I'll make it a bit cheaper. Say three quid--come, that's reasonable, ain't it? Three quid ain't much compensation for me goin' away forever--where the stormy winds do blow, so to say--an' never as much as seein' me own wife agin for better nor wuss. Between man an' man now--three quid; an' I'll shunt. That's fair, ain't it?"