agin, ol' Bob Ford, dead an' done for--gone down in the _Mooltan_.
On'y I _ain't_ done for, see?" And he pointed the stem of his pipe at
Simmons's waistcoat. "I ain't done for, 'cause why? Cons'kence o' bein'
picked up by a ol' German sailin'-'utch an' took to 'Frisco 'fore
the mast. I've 'ad a few years o' knockin' about since then, an'
now"--looking hard at Simmons--"I've come back to see my wife."

"She--she don't like smoke in 'ere," said Simmons, as it were at random.

"No, I bet she don't," Ford answered, taking his pipe from his mouth and
holding it low in his hand. "I know 'Anner. 'Ow d' you find 'er? Do she
make ye clean the winders?"

"Well," Simmons admitted, uneasily, "I--I do 'elp 'er sometimes, o'
course."

"Ah! An' the knives too, I bet, an' the bloomin' kittles. I know.
W'y"--he rose and bent to look behind Simmons's head--"s' 'elp me, I
b'lieve she cuts yer 'air! Well, I'm dammed! Jes' wot she would do,
too."

He inspected the blushing Simmons from divers points of vantage. Then
he lifted a leg of the trousers hanging behind the door. "I'd bet a
trifle," he said, "she made these 'ere trucks. No-body else 'ud do 'em
like that. Damme! they're wuss'n wot you've got on."

The small devil began to have the argument all its own way. If this man
took his wife back perhaps he'd have to wear those trousers.

"Ah," Ford pursued, "she ain't got no milder. An', my davy, wot a jore!"

Simmons began to feel that this was no longer his business. Plainly,
'Anner was this other man's wife, and he was bound in honour to
acknowledge the fact. The small devil put it to him as a matter of duty.

"Well," said Ford, suddenly, "time's short an' this ain't business. I
won't be 'ard on you, matey. I ought prop'ly to stand on my rights, but
seein' as you're a well-meaning young man, so to speak, an' all settled
an' a-livin' 'ere quiet an' matrimonual, I'll"--this with a burst of
generosity--"damme! yus, I'll compound the felony an' take me 'ook.
Come, I'll name a figure, as man to man, fust an' last, no less an' no
more. Five pound does it."

Simmons hadn't five pounds,--he hadn't even fivepence,--and he said so.
"An' I wouldn't think to come between a man an' 'is wife," he added,
"not on no account. It may be rough on me, but it's a dooty. _I'll_ 'ook
it."

"No," said Ford, hastily, clutching Simmons by the arm, "don't do that.
I'll make it a bit cheaper. Say three quid--come, that's reasonable,
ain't it? Three quid