's the fancies that seems to tickle
all the w'y down. Sub-stantial foods is like hugs, but fancies might come
under the 'ead of kisses--you don't know when you get enough on 'em, hey
Tony? You lika da kiss?"

Tony turned up his palms.

"Oh, no, no, dey are not for a poor fella lak me!"

"Watlin," said Harry, "did you say you were a Kent man?"

"Ay, from Kent, the garden of England."

"Are you related to Carrot Bill Watlin, then?"

"Carrot Bill!" shouted Mr. Watlin, "Carrot Bill! Am I related to 'im? W'y
'e's my uncle, 'e is! And do you know 'im then?"

"I've seen him hundreds of times," said Harry.

"There never was such a feller as Carrot Bill," said Mr. Watlin, turning to
us, "there ain't nobody in Kent can bunch carrots like 'im. W'y, truck-men
from all over the county brings their carrots to Bill to be bunched, afore
they tikes 'em to Covent Garden Market! 'E trims 'em down just so, an' fits
'em together till you'd think they'd growed in bunches. An' they look that
'andsome that they bring a penny more a bunch. An' to fancy you know
'im--well I never! Wot nime was it you said?"

"Harry."

"Ow, I meant your surnime."

"Smith," said Harry, shortly.

"Smith," meditated Mr. Watlin, "I know several Smiths in Kent. You're
likely one on 'em. Well, I must shake 'ands with you for the sake of Carrot
Bill." He reached across the table and grasped Harry's hand in a hearty
shake. Thereupon we drank a health to Carrot Bill in bottled beer; and this
was followed by a toast to Mrs. Handsomebody, which somehow subdued us a
little.

"'Er brother is dead you s'y," reflected Mr. Watlin, "and 'ow hold a man
might 'e be?"

"Blessed if I know," replied Mary Ellen, "but he was years an' years
younger than her. She brought him up, and from what I can find out, he
turned out pretty bad."

"Tck, tck." Mr. Watlin was moved. "It was very sad for the lidy, but 'e's
dead now, poor chap! We must speak no ill of the dead."

"It's a vewy bad fing to be dead," interposed The Seraph, sententiously,
"you can't eat, you can't dwink, an' you just fly 'wound an' 'wound,
lookin' for somefing to light on!"

"Right-o, young gentleman!" said Mr. Watlin, "and put as couldn't be
better. And the moral is, mike the most of our time wot's left!"

"Well, fer my part," sighed Mary Ellen, "I've et so hearty, I feel like as
though I'd a horse settin' on my stomick! Sure I don't know how to move."

"A little pinch of bi-carbonate of soder will