I finished the beer wot the actor ’ad left, and, arter telling the landlord I ’oped his eyesight ’ud be better in the morning, I went outside, and arter a careful look round walked back to the wharf.

I pushed the wicket open a little way and peeped in.  The actor was standing just by the fust crane talking to two of the hands off of the Saltram.  He’d got ’is back to the light, but ’ow it was they didn’t twig his voice I can’t think.

They was so busy talking that I crept along by the side of the wall and got to the office without their seeing me.  I went into the private office and turned out the gas there, and sat down to wait for ’im.  Then I ’eard a noise outside that took me to the door agin and kept me there, ’olding on to the door-post and gasping for my breath.  The cook of the Saltram was sitting on a paraffin-cask playing the mouth-orgin, and the actor, with ’is arms folded across his stummick, was dancing a horn-pipe as if he’d gorn mad.

I never saw anything so ridikerlous in my life, and when I recollected that they thought it was me, I thought I should ha’ dropped.

A night-watchman can’t be too careful, and I knew that it ’ud be all over Wapping next morning that I ’ad been dancing to a tuppenny-ha’penny mouth-orgin played by a ship’s cook.  A man that does ’is dooty always has a lot of people ready to believe the worst of ’im.

I went back into the dark office and waited, and by and by I ’eard them coming along to the gate and patting ’im on the back and saying he ought to be in a pantermime instead o’ wasting ’is time night-watching.  He left ’em at the gate, and then ’e came into the office smiling as if he’d done something clever.

“Wot d’ye think of me for a understudy?” he ses, laughing.  “They all thought it was you.  There wasn’t one of ’em ’ad the slightest suspicion —­not one.”

“And wot about my character?” I ses, folding my arms acrost my chest and looking at him.

“Character?” he ses, staring.  “Why, there’s no ’arm in dancing; it’s a innercent enjoyment.”

“It ain’t one o’ my innercent enjoyments,” I ses, “and I don’t want to get the credit of it.  If they hadn’t been sitting in a pub all the evening they’d ’ave spotted you at once.”

“Oh!” he ses, very huffy.  “How?”

“Your voice,” I ses.  “You try and mimic a poll-parrot, and think it’s like me.  And, for another thing, you walk about as though you’re stuffed with sawdust.”

“I beg your pardon,” he ses; “the voice and the walk are exact.  Exact.”

“Wot?” I ses, looking ’im up and down.  “You stand there and ’ave the impudence to tell me that my voice is like that?”

“I do,” he ses.

“Then I’m sorry for you,” I ses.  “I thought you’d got more sense.”

He stood looking at me and gnawing ’is finger, and by and by he ses, “Are you married?” he ses.

“I am,” I ses, very short.