“What’s that got to do with it?” demanded the other.  “It was ’er dooty.  She’d got money, and I ought to have ’ad my ’arf of it.  Nothing can make up for that wasted twenty years—­nothing.”

“P’r’aps she’ll take you back,” said Mr. Wotton.

“Take me back?” repeated Mr. Davis.  “O’ course she’ll take me back.  She’ll have to.  There’s a law in the land, ain’t there?  What I’m thinking of is:  Can I get back my share what I ought to have ’ad for the last twenty years?”

“Get ’er to take you back first,” counselled his friend.  “Thirty-five years is along time, and p’r’aps she has lost ’er love for you.  Was you good-looking in those days?”

“Yes,” snapped Mr. Davis; “I ain’t altered much—.  ’Sides, what about her?”

“That ain’t the question,” said the other.  “She’s got a home and money.  It don’t matter about looks; and, wot’s more, she ain’t bound to keep you.  If you take my advice, you won’t dream of letting her know you run away from her.  Say you was cast away at sea, and when you came back years afterwards you couldn’t find her.”

Mr. Davis pondered for some time in sulky silence.

“P’r’aps it would be as well,” he said at last; “but I sha’n’t stand no nonsense, mind.”

“If you like I’ll come with you,” said Mr. Wotton.  “I ain’t got nothing to do.  I could tell ’er I was cast away with you if you liked.  Anything to help a pal.”

Mr. Davis took two inches of soiled clay pipe from his pocket and puffed thoughtfully.

“You can come,” he said at last.  “If you’d only got a copper or two we could ride; it’s down Clapham way.”

Mr. Wotton smiled feebly, and after going carefully through his pockets shook his head and followed his friend outside.

“I wonder whether she’ll be pleased?” he remarked, as they walked slowly along.  “She might be—­women are funny creatures—­so faithful.  I knew one whose husband used to knock ’er about dreadful, and after he died she was so true to his memory she wouldn’t marry again.”

Mr. Davis grunted, and, with a longing eye at the omnibuses passing over London Bridge, asked a policeman the distance to Clapham.

“Never mind,” said Mr. Wotton, as his friend uttered an exclamation.  “You’ll have money in your pocket soon.”

Mr. Davis’s face brightened.  “And a watch and chain too,” he said.

“And smoke your cigar of a Sunday,” said Mr. Wotton, “and have a easy-chair and a glass for a friend.”

Mr. Davis almost smiled, and then, suddenly remembering his wasted twenty years, shook his head grimly over the friendship that attached itself to easy-chairs and glasses of ale, and said that there was plenty of it about.  More friendship than glasses of ale and easy-chairs, perhaps.

At Clapham, they inquired the way of a small boy, and, after following the road indicated, retraced their steps, cheered by a faint but bloodthirsty hope of meeting him again.