Of course, at night they pull up the ladder in case a stray puddin'-thief happens to be prowling around. If a friend calls to have a quiet chat, or to join in a sing-song round the fire, they let the ladder down for him. And a very pleasant life they lead, sitting of a summer evening on the balcony while Ben does his little market-garden jobs below, and the Puddin' throws bits of bark at the cabbages, and pulls faces at the little pickle onions, in order to make them squeak with terror. On winter nights there is always Puddin' and hot coffee for supper, and many's the good go-in I've had up there, a-sitting round the fire. I didn't mean to let on that I knew their address, on account of so many people wanting to have a go at the Puddin'. However, it's out now. When the wind blows and the rain comes down, it's jolly sitting up aloft in the snug tree-house, especially when old Bill is in good form and gives us "The Salt Junk Sarah", with all hands joining in the chorus. "Oh, rolling round the ocean, From a far and foreign land, May suit the common notion That a sailor's life is grand. "But as for me, I'd sooner be A roaring here at home About the rolling, roaring life Of them that sails the foam. "For the homeward-bounder's chorus, Which he roars across the foam, Is all about chucking a sailor's life, And settling down at home. "Home, home, home, That's the song of them that roam, The song of the roaring, rolling sea Is all about rolling home."