He moved slowly to the door, accompanied by Mr. Brown, and catching the eye of one or two of the men beckoned them to follow.  Under his able guidance a small but gradually increasing crowd made its way to the “Red Lion.”  For the next three or four days the friends worked unceasingly.  Cards stating that a Friendly Lead would be held at the “Red Lion,” for the benefit of the widow of the late Mr. Joseph Gibbs, were distributed broadcast; and anecdotes portraying a singularly rare and beautiful character obtained an even wider circulation.  Too late Wapping realized the benevolent disposition and the kindly but unobtrusive nature that had departed from it for ever.

Mr. Gibbs, from his retreat across the water, fully shared his friends’ enthusiasm, but an insane desire—­engendered by vanity—­to be present at the function was a source of considerable trouble and annoyance to them.  When he offered to black his face and take part in the entertainment as a nigger minstrel, Mr. Kidd had to be led outside and kept there until such time as he could converse in English pure and undefiled.

“Getting above ’imself, that’s wot it is,” said Mr. Brown, as they wended their way home.  “He’s having too much money out of us to spend; but it won’t be for long now.”

“He’s having a lord’s life of it, while we’re slaving ourselves to death,” grumbled Mr. Kidd.  “I never see’im looking so fat and well.  By rights he oughtn’t to ’ave the same share as wot we’re going to ’ave; he ain’t doing none of the work.”

His ill-humour lasted until the night of the “Lead,” which, largely owing to the presence of a sporting fishmonger who had done well at the races that day, and some of his friends, realized a sum far beyond the expectations of the hard-working promoters.  The fishmonger led off by placing a five-pound note in the plate, and the packed audience breathed so hard that the plate-holder’s responsibility began to weigh upon his spirits.  In all, a financial tribute of thirty-seven pounds three and fourpence was paid to the memory of the late Mr. Gibbs.

“Over twelve quid apiece,” said the delighted Mr. Kidd as he bade his co-worker good night.  “Sounds too good to be true.”

The next day passed all too slowly, but work was over at last, and Mr. Kidd led the way over London Bridge a yard or two ahead of the more phlegmatic Mr. Brown.  Mr. Gibbs was in his old corner at the “Wheelwright’s Arms,” and, instead of going into ecstasies over the sum realized, hinted darkly that it would have been larger if he had been allowed to have had a hand in it.

“It’ll ’ardly pay me for my trouble,” he said, shaking his head.  “It’s very dull over ’ere all alone by myself.  By the time you two have ’ad your share, besides taking wot I owe you, there’ll be ’ardly anything left.”

“I’ll talk to you another time,” said Mr. Kidd, regarding him fixedly.  “Wot you’ve got to do now is to come acrost the river with us.”