“Come, don’t be hard on a bloke when he’s down,” replied the man. “It ain’t everyone that gets on their legs again when they comes out. I ’ve been out two months, and I haven’t had a job yet. S’welp me! And there’s the wife and the kids starving. Give us a couple of quid to send to ’em and make ’em happy again. Just two thick uns.” Joyce stared at him, breathless with indignation at his impudence. “I ’ll see you damned first!” he cried fiercely. “Well, make it ten bob, or five, or the price of a drink, old pal. You can’t leave an old fellow-boarder in distress, or the luck will turn agen you.” He leered up into Joyce’s face, disclosing a jagged row of yellow teeth. But Joyce started forward and took him by the collar. “If you try to blackmail me,” said he, pointing to a policeman on the quay, “I ’ll give you in charge. Just stay where you are and let me go my ways.” He released him and marched off. But the man did not attempt to follow. He slipped into a seat close by and sang out sarcastically: “If you ’ll leave your address, I ’ll send you a mourning card when the kids is dead!” Joyce caught the words as he hurried down the stairs. When he had crossed the quay to the hotels, he looked up at the pier, and saw the man leaning over with a grin on his face. It was only when he reached his lodging that he breathed freely again. What he had long expected had come to pass--recognition by a fellow-prisoner. It was a horrible experience. It might occur again and again indefinitely. He walked agitated up and down his poorly-furnished bedroom. Could he do nothing to guard against such things in the future? If he could only disguise himself! Then he remembered that the moustache which might have served him as a slight protection against casual glances had been sacrificed to theatrical exigencies. He ground his teeth at the futility of the idea. And at intervals wrath rose up hot within him at the man’s cool impudence. Two pounds--more than a week’s salary--to be thrown away on swine like that! He laughed savagely at the thought. He grew calm after a time, lay down on his bed and opened a book. But the face of the man, bringing with it scenes of a past in which they had been associated came between his eyes and the page. “Anyhow, it’s over,” he exclaimed at last, with a determined effort to banish the memories. “And, thank God, it’s Saturday, and I shall be in Leeds to-morrow.” To avoid the chance of meeting him in the streets, however, he stayed at home all day, sending round a note of excuse on the score of seediness to Miss Stevens, with whom he had arranged to take an afternoon stroll. On his way to the theatre he caught sight of the man standing by a gas-lamp at a street-corner on the other side of the way. He hurried on, glad at his escape, for the glance of the man’s eyes resting upon him was abhorrent.