“Come to see my wife,” the man repeated. “So now we can talk it over—as man to man.”

Simmons slowly shut his mouth, and led the way upstairs mechanically, his fingers still in his hair. A sense of the state of affairs sunk gradually into his brain, and the small devil woke again. Suppose this man was Ford? Suppose he did claim his wife? Would it be a knockdown blow? Would it hit him out?—or not? He thought of the trousers, the tea-things, the mangling, the knives, the kettles and the windows; and he thought of them in the way of a backslider.

On the landing Ford clutched at his arm, and asked, in a hoarse whisper: “Ow long ’fore she’s back?”

“ ’Bout a hour, I expect,” Simmons replied, having first of all repeated the question in his own mind. And then he opened the parlor door.

“Ah,” said Ford, looking about him, “you’ve bin pretty comf’table. Them chairs an’ things”—jerking his pipe toward them—“was hers—mine, that is to say, speaking straight, and man to man.” He sat down, puffing meditatively at his pipe, and presently: “Well,” he continued, “ ’ere I am agin, ol’ Bob Ford dead an’ done for—gawn 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. Wy”—he rose and bent to look behind Simmons’s head—“s’elp me, I b’lieve she cuts yer ’air! Well, I’m damned! 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. Nobody else ’ud do ’em like that. Damme—they’re wuss’n wot you’re got on.”

The small devil began to have the argument all its own way. It 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 honor 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-meanin’ young man, so to speak, an’ all settled an’ a-livin e’re 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 five pence—and he said so. “An’ I wouldn’t think for 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, “dont’ do that. I’ll make it a bit cheaper. Say three quid—come, that’s reasonable, ain’tit? Three quid ain’t much compensation for me goin’ away