beg my
bread," he said, tearfully, "I shall think o' this 'appy bar and these
friendly faces. When I am wrestlin' with the pangs of 'unger and being
moved on by the 'eartless police, I shall think of you as I last saw
you."

"But," said Mr. Smith, voicing the general consternation, "you're going
to your niece in New Zealand?"

Mr. Wiggett shook his head and smiled a sad, sweet smile.

"I 'ave no niece," he said, simply; "I'm alone in the world."

At these touching words his audience put their glasses down and stared
in amaze at Mr. Ketchmaid, while that gentleman in his turn gazed at Mr.
Wiggett as though he had suddenly developed horns and a tail.

"Ketchmaid told me hisself as he'd paid your passage to New Zealand,"
said the shoemaker; "he said as 'e'd pressed you to stay, but that you
said as blood was thicker even than friendship."

"All lies," said Mr. Wiggett, sadly. "I'll stay with pleasure if he'll
give the word. I'll stay even now if 'e wishes it."

He paused a moment as though to give his bewildered victim time to
accept this offer, and then addressed the scandalised Mr. Clark again.

"He don't like my being 'ere," he said, in a low voice. "He grudges the
little bit I eat, I s'pose. He told me I'd got to go, and that for the
look o' things 'e was going to pretend I was going to New Zealand. I
was too broke-'earted at the time to care wot he said--I 'ave no wish to
sponge on no man--but, seeing your 'onest faces round me, I couldn't go
with a lie on my lips--Sol Ketch-maid, old shipmate--good-bye."

He turned to the speechless landlord, made as though to shake hands with
him, thought better of it, and then, with a wave of his hand full of
chastened dignity, withdrew. His stump rang with pathetic insistence
upon the brick-paved passage, paused at the door, and then, tapping on
the hard road, died slowly away in the distance. Inside the Ship the
shoemaker gave an ominous order for lemonade.

A MARKED MAN

"Tattooing is a gift," said the night-watchman, firmly. "It 'as to be a
gift, as you can well see. A man 'as to know wot 'e is going to tattoo
an' 'ow to do it; there's no rubbing out or altering. It's a gift, an'
it can't be learnt. I knew a man once as used to tattoo a cabin-boy all
over every v'y'gc trying to learn. 'E was a slow, painstaking sort o'
man, and the langwidge those boys used to use while 'e was at work would
'ardly be believed, but 'e 'ad to give up trying arter about fifteen