“D’ye think I’ve gone mad, or what?” inquired the amazed Mr. Tasker.  “What d’ye think I should want to buy clothes for your young’uns for?  That’s your duty.  And Selina, too; I haven’t given ’er anything except a ring, and she lent me the money for that.  D’ye think I’m made o’ money?”

“All right, Joseph,” said Mr. Vickers, secretly incensed at this unforeseen display of caution on Mr. Tasker’s part.  “I s’pose the fairies come and put’em on while they was asleep.  But it’s dry work walking; ‘ave you got such a thing as a glass o’ water you could give me?”

The other took a glass from the dresser and, ignoring the eye of his prospective father-in-law, which was glued to a comfortable-looking barrel in the corner, filled it to the brim with fair water and handed it to him.  Mr. Vickers, giving him a surly nod, took a couple of dainty sips and placed it on the table.

“It’s very nice water,” he said, sarcastically.

“Is it?” said Mr. Tasker.  “We don’t drink it ourselves, except in tea or coffee; the cap’n says it ain’t safe.”

Mr. Vickers brought his eye from the barrel and glared at him.

“I s’pose, Joseph,” he said, after a long pause, during which Mr. Tasker was busy making up the fire—­“I s’pose Selina didn’t tell you you wasn’t to tell me about the money?”

“I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said the other, confronting him angrily.  “I haven’t got no money.”

Mr. Vickers coughed.  “Don’t say that, Joseph,” he urged, softly; “don’t say that, my lad.  As a matter o’ fact, I come round to you, interrupting of you in your work, and I’m sorry for it—­knowing how fond of it you are—­to see whether I couldn’t borrow a trifle for a day or two.”

“Ho, did you?” commented Mr. Tasker, who had opened the oven door and was using his hand as a thermometer.

His visitor hesitated.  It was no use asking for too much; on the other hand, to ask for less than he could get would be unpardonable folly.

“If I could lay my hand on a couple o’ quid,” he said, in a mysterious whisper, “I could make it five in a week.”

“Well, why don’t you?” inquired Mr. Tasker, who was tenderly sucking the bulb of the thermometer after contact with the side of the oven.

“It’s the two quid that’s the trouble, Joseph,” replied Mr. Vickers, keeping his temper with difficulty.  “A little thing like that wouldn’t be much trouble to you, I know, but to a pore man with a large family like me it’s a’most impossible.”

Mr. Tasker went outside to the larder, and returning with a small joint knelt down and thrust it carefully into the oven.

“A’most impossible,” repeated Mr. Vickers, with a sigh.

“What is?” inquired the other, who had not been listening.

The half-choking Mr. Vickers explained.

“Yes, o’ course it is,” assented Mr. Tasker.

“People what’s got money,” said the offended Mr. Vickers, regarding him fiercely, “stick to it like leeches.  Now, suppose I was a young man keeping company with a gal and her father wanted to borrow a couple o’ quid—­a paltry couple o’ thick’uns—­what d’ye think I should do?”