“Only a wife,” said Mr. Kidd; “and who’s to tell that pore soul I don’t know.  She fair doated on ’im.  ’Ow she’s to live I don’t know.  I shall do what I can for ’er.”

“Same ’ere,” said Mr. Brown, in a deep voice.

“Something ought to be done for ’er,” said the carman, as he went out.

“First thing is to tell the police,” said the landlord.  “They ought to know; then p’r’aps one of them’ll tell her.  It’s what they’re paid for.”

“It’s so awfully sudden.  I don’t know where I am ’ardly,” said Mr. Kidd.  “I don’t believe she’s got a penny-piece in the ’ouse.  Pore Joe ’ad a lot o’ pals.  I wonder whether we could’nt get up something for her.”

“Go round and tell the police first,” said the landlord, pursing up his lips thoughtfully.  “We can talk about that later on.”

Mr. Kidd thanked him warmly and withdrew, accompanied by Mr. Brown.  Twenty minutes later they left the station, considerably relieved at the matter-of-fact way in which the police had received the tidings, and, hurrying across London Bridge, made their way towards a small figure supporting its back against a post in the Borough market.

“Well?” said Mr. Gibbs, snappishly, as he turned at the sound of their footsteps.

“It’ll be all right, Joe,” said Mr. Kidd.  “We’ve sowed the seed.”

“Sowed the wot?” demanded the other.

Mr. Kidd explained.

“Ho!” said Mr. Gibbs.  “An’ while your precious seed is a-coming up, wot am I to do?  Wot about my comfortable ’ome?  Wot about my bed and grub?”

His two friends looked at each other uneasily.  In the excitement of the arrangements they had for gotten these things, and a long and sometimes painful experience of Mr. Gibbs showed them only too plainly where they were drifting.

“You’ll ‘ave to get a bed this side o’ the river somewhere,” said Mr. Brown, slowly.  “Coffee-shop or something; and a smart, active man wot keeps his eyes open can always pick up a little money.”

Mr. Gibbs laughed.

“And mind,” said Mr. Kidd, furiously, in reply to the laugh, “anything we lend you is to be paid back out of your half when you get it.  And, wot’s more, you don’t get a ha’penny till you’ve come into a barber’s shop and ’ad them whiskers off.  We don’t want no accidents.”

Mr. Gibbs, with his back against the post, fought for his whiskers for nearly half an hour, and at the end of that time was led into a barber’s, and in a state of sullen indignation proffered his request for a “clean” shave.  He gazed at the bare-faced creature that confronted him in the glass after the operation in open-eyed consternation, and Messrs. Kidd and Brown’s politeness easily gave way before their astonishment.

“Well, I may as well have a ’air-cut while I’m here,” said Mr. Gibbs, after a lengthy survey.

“And a shampoo, sir?” said the assistant.