They took a tram-car and went to a music-hall, and Bob paid for the three of ’em.  George never seemed to think of putting his ’and in his pocket, and even arter the music-hall, when they all went into a shop and ’ad stewed eels, he let Bob pay.

As I said afore, Bob Evans was chock-full of gratefulness, and it seemed only fair that he shouldn’t grumble at spending a little over the man wot ’ad risked ’is life to save his; but wot with keeping George at his room, and paying for ’im every time they went out, he was spending a lot more money than ’e could afford.

“You’re on’y young once, Bob,” George said to him when ’e made a remark one arternoon as to the fast way his money was going, “and if it hadn’t ha’ been for me you’d never ’ave lived to grow old.”

Wot with spending the money and always ’aving George with them when they went out, it wasn’t long afore Bob and Gerty ’ad a quarrel.  “I don’t like a pore-spirited man,” she ses.  “Two’s company and three’s none, and, besides, why can’t he pay for ’imself?  He’s big enough.  Why should you spend your money on ’im?  He never pays a farthing.”

Bob explained that he couldn’t say anything because ’e owed his life to George, but ’e might as well ’ave talked to a lamp-post.  The more he argued the more angry Gerty got, and at last she ses, “Two’s company and three’s none, and if you and me can’t go out without George Crofts, then me and ’im ’ll go out with-out you.”

She was as good as her word, too, and the next night, while Bob ’ad gone out to get some ’bacca, she went off alone with George.  It was ten o’clock afore they came back agin, and Gerty’s eyes were all shining and ’er cheeks as pink as roses.  She shut ’er mother up like a concertina the moment she began to find fault with ’er, and at supper she sat next to George and laughed at everything ’e said.

George and Bob walked all the way ’ome arter supper without saying a word, but arter they got to their room George took a side-look at Bob, and then he ses, suddenlike, “Look ’ere!  I saved your life, didn’t I?”

“You did,” ses Bob, “and I thank you for it.”

“I saved your life,” ses George agin, very solemn.  “If it hadn’t ha’ been for me you couldn’t ha’ married anybody.”

“That’s true,” ses Bob.

“Me and Gerty ’ave been having a talk,” ses George, bending down to undo his boots.  “We’ve been getting on very well together; you can’t ’elp your feelings, and the long and the short of it is, the pore gal has fallen in love with me.”

Bob didn’t say a word.

“If you look at it this way it’s fair enough,” ses George.  “I gave you your life and you give me your gal.  We’re quits now.  You don’t owe me anything and I don’t owe you anything.  That’s the way Gerty puts it, and she told me to tell you so.”

“If—­if she don’t want me I’m agreeable,” ses Bob, in a choking voice.  “We’ll call it quits, and next time I tumble overboard I ’ope you won’t be handy.”