“Wot for?” inquired Sam carefully. “Workin’ expenses,” replied the cook, dwelling fondly on the phrase. “That’ll be thruppence each, then,” said Sam, eyeing him suspiciously. “Sixpence each,” said the cook. “Now do you know what we’re goin’ to do?” “Chuck money away,” hazarded Sam as he reluctantly drew a sixpence from his pocket and handed it to the cook. “Where’s your sixpence?” The cook showed it to him, and Sam, whose faith in human nature had been largely shaken by a perusal of the detective story referred to, bit it critically. “We can’t go into pubs without drinkin’ in the ordinary way,” said the cook, “so we’re goin’ in to sell bootlaces, like the chap in the book did. Now do you see?” “Why not try something cheaper first?” growled Sam—“measurin’ footmarks, or over-’earing fellers talking? It’s just like you, cookie, doin’ expensive things.” Under the cook’s glance of silent scorn he became first restive and then abusive, winding up finally by demanding his money back. “Don’t you be a fool!” said the cook coarsely. “You leave it to me.” “And get tied up in a chair with my own bootlaces p’raps,” said the irritated seaman. The cook, affecting not to hear him, looked out for a boot-shop, and having found one, walked in, followed by the discontented Sam, and purchased a shilling’s-worth of laces. “Wot am I to say?” demanded Sam surlily, as they stood outside, and the cook hung half a dozen laces over his arm. “You needn’t say anything,” replied the cook. “Just walk in an’ ’old ’em up in the people’s faces, an’ if anybody offers you a drink you may ’ave it.” “Thank you for nothin’,” said Sam, with prophetic insight. “You take all the pubs this side of the ’igh Street an’ I’ll take the other,” said the cook. “And if you look as cheerful as you look now you ought to take a lot o’ money.” He turned away, and with a farewell caution against drinking, set off. The stout seaman, with a strong distaste for his job, took the laces in his hand and bent his steps in the direction of a small but noisy tavern in the next street. The public bar was full, and Sam’s heart failed him as he entered it, and, bearing the cook’s instructions in mind, held up his wares to the customers. Most of them took no notice, and the only man who said anything to him was a red-nosed sergeant of marines, who, setting his glass with great deliberation on the counter, gazed fixedly at a dozen laces crawling over his red sleeve. His remarks, when he discovered their connection with Sam, were of a severe and sweeping character, and contained not the slightest reference to a drink. In the next bar he met a philanthropist who bought up his whole stock-in-trade. The stout seaman was utterly unprepared for such kindness, and stood looking at him dumbly, his lips all a-tremble with naughty words. “There, there,” said his benefactor kindly. “Never mind about thanking me.”