ould be insupportable,
he roamed idly about until the day gave place to twilight, and the red
eye of the lightship on the horizon peeped suddenly across the water.
Bittlesea was dull to aching point; a shirt-sleeved householder or two
sat in his fragrant front-garden smoking, and a murmur of voices and
shag tobacco floated out from tavern doorways. He paced up and down the
quay, until the necessity of putting a stop to the vagaries of his crew
furnished him with a little wholesome diversion.

In their quest for good beer Mr. Green and Joe had left themselves in
the hands of the other members of the crew, and had gone off with them
in a body to the Cap and Bells, where, in a most pointed fashion, Mr.
Green, who had been regarding the fireman's complexion for some time
with much displeasure, told the boy to go back to the ship and get his
face washed.

"He's all right, ain't you, Tommy?" said the cook, coming to the rescue.

"Boys ought to keep their faces clean," said Mr. Green, impressively;
"there's nothing more unpleasant than a face what wants washing. You
don't want to grow up like that, do you? Look at it, Joe."

"It might be cleaner," said Joe, thus appealed to, slowly; "likewise it
might be dirtier."

"It might be much dirtier," said Mr. Green, emphatically; "anybody with
eyes in their 'ed can see that."

There was an awkward pause, during which the fireman, with one eye
peeping furtively from be-yond the rim of a quart pot, saw both Joe and
the cook kick Mr. Green's foot to call his attention to the fact that
his words might be misconstrued by another member of the party.

"I 'ate toffs," he said, deliberately, as he placed his mug on the
counter.

"They're all right when you know 'em, Charlie," said Joe, who was averse
to having the evening spoiled at that early hour.

"A real toff's bad enough," continued the fireman, "but a himitation
one--pah!" He buried his face in the pewter again, and laughed
discordantly.

"You go aboard and wash you face, Tommy," repeated Mr. Green. "I should
think you'd find plenty o' soap in Charlie's bunk."

"Do you know what you want?" demanded the fireman, regarding him
fixedly.

"I know what you want," said Mr. Green, with a supercilious smile.

"Oh! Wot?" said the other.

The polite seaman rose to his feet and watched him carefully. "A banjo,"
he replied.

It was not the reply according to time-honoured formula, and Charlie,
who was expecting something quite d