“I’ve only got two cheeks, mind,” he said, slowly.

Mr. Ricketts sighed.  “I wish you’d got a blinking dozen,” he said, wistfully.  “Well, so long.  Be good.”

He walked into the Blue Lion absolutely free from that sense of shame which Mr. Purnip had predicted, and, accepting a pint from an admirer, boasted noisily of his exploit.  Mr. Billing, suffering both mentally and physically, walked slowly home to his astonished wife.

“P’r’aps he’ll be ashamed of hisself when ’e comes to think it over,” he murmured, as Mrs. Billing, rendered almost perfect by practice, administered first aid.

“I s’pect he’s crying his eyes out,” she said, with a sniff.  “Tell me if that ’urts.”

Mr. Billing told her, then, suddenly remembering himself, issued an expurgated edition.

“I’m sorry for the next man that ’its you,” said his wife, as she drew back and regarded her handiwork.

“’Well, you needn’t be,” said Mr. Billing, with dignity.  “It would take more than a couple o’ props in the jaw to make me alter my mind when I’ve made it up.  You ought to know that by this time.  Hurry up and finish.  I want you to go to the corner and fetch me a pot.”

“What, ain’t you going out agin?” demanded his astonished wife.

Mr. Billing shook his head.  “Somebody else might want to give me one,” he said, resignedly, “and I’ve ’ad about all I want to-night.”

His face was still painful next morning, but as he sat at breakfast in the small kitchen he was able to refer to Mr. Ricketts in terms which were an eloquent testimony to Mr. Purnip’s teaching.  Mrs. Billing, unable to contain herself, wandered off into the front room with a duster.

“Are you nearly ready to go?” she inquired, returning after a short interval.

“Five minutes,” said Mr. Billing, nodding.  I’ll just light my pipe and then I’m off.”

“’Cos there’s two or three waiting outside for you,” added his wife.

Mr. Billing rose.  “Ho, is there?” he said, grimly, as he removed his coat and proceeded to roll up his shirt-sleeves.  “I’ll learn ’em.  I’ll give ’em something to wait for.  I’ll——­”

His voice died away as he saw the triumph in his wife’s face, and, drawing down his sleeves again, he took up his coat and stood eyeing her in genuine perplexity.

“Tell ’em I’ve gorn,” he said, at last.

“And what about telling lies?” demanded his wife.  “What would your Mr. Purnip say to that?”

“You do as you’re told,” exclaimed the harassed Mr. Billing.  “I’m not going to tell ’em; it’s you.”

Mrs. Billing returned to the parlour, and, with Mr. Billing lurking in the background, busied herself over a china flower-pot that stood in the window, and turned an anxious eye upon three men waiting outside.  After a glance or two she went to the door.

“Did you want to see my husband?” she inquired.