“Well?” ses Mr. Goodman, looking at ’im anxious-like.

“It ain’t so ’orrid as I ’ad fancied,” ses Sam, lap-ping up the rest very gentle.

[Illustration:  “’It aint so ’orrid as I ‘ad fancied.’ ses Sam.”]

“’Ave you ’ad enough to do you all the good it ought to?”

Mr. Goodman said that it was no good ’arf doing a thing, and p’r’aps he ’ad better ’ave one more; and arter Sam ’ad paid for the next two they went out arm-in-arm.

“’Ow cheerful everybody looks!” ses Mr. Good-man, smiling.

“They’re going to amuse theirselves, I expect,” ses Sam—­ “music-’alls and such-like.”

Mr. Goodman shook his ’ead at ’em.

“Music-’alls ain’t so bad as some people try to make out,” ses Sam.

“Look ’ere; I took some drink to see what the flavor was like; suppose you go to a music-’all to see wot that’s like?”

“It seems on’y fair,” ses Peter’s uncle, considering.

“It is fair,” ses Sam, and twenty minutes arterwards they was sitting in a music-’all drinking each other’s ’ealths and listening to the songs—­ Mr. Goodman with a big cigar in ’is mouth and his ’at cocked over one eye, and Sam beating time to the music with ’is pipe.

“’Ow do you like it?” he ses.

Mr. Goodman didn’t answer ’im because ’e was joining in the chorus with one side of ’is mouth and keeping ’is cigar alight with the other.  He just nodded at ’im; but ’e looked so ’appy that Sam felt it was a pleasure to sit there and look at ’im.

“I wonder wot Peter and Ginger is doin’?” he ses, when the song was finished.

“I don’t know,” ses Mr. Goodman, “and, wot’s more, I don’t care.  If I’d ’ad any idea that Peter was like wot he is I should never ’ave wrote to ’im.  I can’t think ’ow you can stand ’im.”

“He ain’t so bad,” ses Sam, wondering whether he ought to tell ’im ’arf of wot Peter really was like.

“Bad!” ses Mr. Goodman.  “I come up to London for a ’oliday—­a change, mind you—­and I thought Peter and me was going to ’ave a good time.  Instead o’ that, he goes about with a face as long as a fiddle.  He don’t drink, ’e don’t go to places of amusement—­innercent places of amusement —­and ’is idea of enjoying life is to go walking about the streets and drinking cups o’ tea.”

“We must try and alter ‘im,” ses Sam, arter doing a bit o’ thinking.

“Certainly not,” ses Mr. Goodman, laying his ’and on Sam’s knee.  “Far be it from me to interfere with a feller-creature’s ideas o’ wot’s right.  Besides, he might get writing to ’is sister agin, and she might tell my wife.”

“But Peter said she was dead,” ses Sam, very puzzled.

“I married agin,” ses Peter’s uncle, in a whisper, ’cos people was telling ’im to keep quiet, “a tartar—­a perfect tartar.  She’s in a ’orsepittle at present, else I shouldn’t be ‘ere.  And I shouldn’t ha’ been able to come if I ’adn’t found five pounds wot she’d hid in a match-box up the chimbley.”