“I wish I could take you,” ses Sam, looking at the other two out o’ the corner of his eye, “but my ship’s over at Dunkirk, in France.  I’ve just run over to London for a week or two to look round.”

“And mine’s there too,” ses Peter Russet, speaking a’most afore old Sam ’ad finished; “side by side they lay in the harbour.”

“Oh, dear,” ses Mrs. Finch, folding her ’ands and shaking her ’cad.  “I should like to go over a ship one arternoon.  I’d quite made up my mind to it, knowing three captins.”

She smiled and looked at Ginger; and Sam and Peter looked at ’im too, wondering whether he was going to berth his ship at Dunkirk alongside o’ theirs.

“Ah, I wish I ’ad met you a fortnight ago,” ses Ginger, very sad.  “I gave up my ship, the High flyer, then, and I’m waiting for one my owners are ’aving built for me at New-castle.  They said the High flyer wasn’t big enough for me.  She was a nice little ship, though.  I believe I’ve got ’er picture somewhere about me!”

He felt in ’is pocket and pulled out a little, crumpled-up photograph of a ship he’d been fireman aboard of some years afore, and showed it to ’er.

“That’s me standing on the bridge,” he ses, pointing out a little dot with the stem of ’is pipe.

“It’s your figger,” ses Mrs. Finch, straining her eyes.  “I should know it anywhere.”

“You’ve got wonderful eyes, ma’am,” ses old Sam, choking with ’is pipe.

“Anybody can see that,” ses Ginger.  “They’re the largest and the bluest I’ve ever seen.”

Mrs. Finch told ’im not to talk nonsense, but both Sam and Peter Russet could see ’ow pleased she was.

“Truth is truth,” ses Ginger.  “I’m a plain man, and I speak my mind.”

“Blue is my fav’rit’ colour,” ses old Sam, in a tender voice.  “True blue.”

Peter Russet began to feel out of it.  “I thought brown was,” he ses.

“Ho!” ses Sam, turning on ’im; “and why?”

“I ’ad my reasons,” ses Peter, nodding, and shutting ’is mouth very firm.

“I thought brown was ’is fav’rit colour too,” ses Ginger.  “I don’t know why.  It’s no use asking me; because if you did I couldn’t tell you.”

“Brown’s a very nice colour,” ses Mrs. Finch, wondering wot was the matter with old Sam.

“Blue,” ses Ginger; “big blue eyes—­they’re the ones for me.  Other people may ’ave their blacks and their browns,” he ses, looking at Sam and Peter Russet, “but give me blue.”

They went on like that all the evening, and every time the shop-bell went and the widow ’ad to go out to serve a customer they said in w’ispers wot they thought of each other; and once when she came back rather sudden Ginger ’ad to explain to ’er that ’e was showing Peter Russet a scratch on his knuckle.

Ginger Dick was the fust there next night, and took ’er a little chiney teapot he ’ad picked up dirt cheap because it was cracked right acrost the middle; but, as he explained that he ’ad dropped it in hurrying to see ’er, she was just as pleased.  She stuck it up on the mantelpiece, and the things she said about Ginger’s kindness and generosity made Peter Russet spend good money that he wanted for ’imself on a painted flower-pot next evening.