“Wot yer doing?” asked the plain-clothes man. “Dropped some money. Oh well, I can't see it. It was only sixpence.” He straightened up. “Cawn't we help?” asked Grace's policeman. “It doesn't matter. To-morrow's Christmas and I'll get more than that.” “It's more'n the price of a pot o' beer,” said Grace's policeman. “If you can afford to lose it, we can. Goodnight.” “Good-night,” said Peter, “and a Merry Christmas.” When they were out of sight he stole back. “Uncle! Uncle! What can I do? Tell me.” “They're after me. I've nowhere to sleep. I just want to see my kids and Jehane before they get me. That's why I've come.” “They shan't get you,” said Peter firmly. “Oh, but they will. I once said, 'They shan't get me'; but when you're cold and hungry----” “You stop there. I'll be back in ten minutes.” Peter ran down the Crescent. It was he and Uncle Waffles against the world; but there was one man who might help--a man who wasn't good enough to be hard and judging. Peter looked ahead as he ran, shaping his plan. Yes, there he was, dropping the reins on his horse's back from driving his last fare. Peter tugged at his arm as Mr. Grace heaved himself down from the seat to the pavement. “None O' that, me boy, or I'll tear yer bloomin' tripes h'out---- Oh, beg parding; h'it's you, Master Peter.” “I want to speak to you, Mr. Grace, somewhere where we can't be seen or heard.” “Yer do, do yer? Wot abart the pub?” “Not the pub, people'd wonder to see me there.” Mr. Grace was offended; no one ever wondered to see him there. “Not respeckable enough! That's it, is h'it. Ah well, you take my advice. You're young. If yer want to live ter be my age, pickle yer guts. Yer'll 'ave a darter one day, don't yer worry. Gawd pity a man wiv a disrespekful hussy---- Suppose yer think I'm drunk?” The situation required tact. “Not drunk, Mr. Grace; you don't run your words together. You're just Christmasy, I expect.” Mr. Grace threw a rug over his horse's back and fetched out the nose-bag. When this was done, he addressed Peter solemnly, steadying himself against the shafts. “I am drunk. Yer know I'm drunk. I know I'm drunk. Old Cat's Meat knows I'm drunk. Where's the good o' argify-ing and tellin' lies abart it? Let's settle the point at once. I'm damn well drunk and I'm goin' ter be drunker.” The minutes were flying; there was no more time to fence. “Mr. Grace, I want you to help me. There's no one else in the world I would ask.” Mr. Grace cocked his eye at Peter, a blind kind of eye like an oyster on the half-shell. “'Elp! 'Elp 'oo? 'Elp wot? Me 'elp! I need 'elp me-self; I kin 'ardly stand up.” “Oh please, not so loud! I'm serious. Something dreadful's happening and you're my friend---- You are my friend, aren't you?” Mr. Grace clapped his heavy paw on Peter's shoulder. “S'long h'as Gawd gives me breaf.” “Then let's sit in the cab, so no one will see us and I'll tell you.”