“‘Rude?’ I ses, staring at her.

“‘Of course it was a rude thing for me to say,’ she ses, smiling; ‘because you are still a young man yourself.’

“I shook my ’ead.  ‘Youngish,’ I ses.

“‘Young!’ she ses, stamping ’er little foot.

“She gave me another look, and this time ’er blue eyes seemed large and solemn.  She walked along like one in a dream, and twice she tripped over the planks and would ’ave fallen if I hadn’t caught ’er round the waist.

“‘Thank you,’ she ses.  ‘I’m very clumsy.  How strong your arm is!’

“We walked up and down agin, and every time we went near the edge of the jetty she ’eld on to my arm for fear of stumbling agin.  And there was that silly cook standing about on the schooner on tip-toe and twisting his silly old neck till I wonder it didn’t twist off.

“‘Wot a beautiful evening it is!’ she ses, at last, in a low voice.  ’I ’ope father isn’t coming back early.  Do you know wot time he is coming home?’

“‘About twelve,’ I ses; ’but don’t tell ‘im I told you so.’

“‘O’ course not,’ she ses, squeezing my arm.  ’Poor father!  I hope he is enjoying himself as much as I am.’

“We walked down to the jetty agin arter that, and sat side by side looking acrost the river.  And she began to talk about Life, and wot a strange thing it was; and ’ow the river would go on flowing down to the sea thousands and thousands o’ years arter we was both dead and forgotten.  If it hadn’t ha’ been for her little ’ead leaning agin my shoulder I should have ’ad the creeps.

“‘Let’s go down into the cabin,’ she ses, at last, with a little shiver; ’it makes me melancholy sitting here and thinking of the “might-have-beens."’

“I got up first and ’elped her up, and, arter both staring hard at the cook, wot didn’t seem to know ’is place, we went down into the cabin.  It was a comfortable little place, and arter she ’ad poured me out a glass of ‘er father’s whisky, and filled my pipe for me, I wouldn’t ha’ changed places with a king.  Even when the pipe wouldn’t draw I didn’t mind.

“‘May I write a letter?’ she ses, at last.

“‘Sartainly,’ I ses.

“She got out her pen and ink and paper, and wrote.  ‘I sha’n’t be long,’ she ses, looking up and nibbling ’er pen.  ’It’s a letter to my dressmaker; she promised my dress by six o’clock this afternoon, and I am just writing to tell her that if I don’t have it by ten in the morning she can keep it.’

“‘Quite right,’ I ses; ‘it’s the on’y way to get things done.’

“‘It’s my way,’ she ses, sticking the letter in an envelope and licking it down.  ‘Nice name, isn’t it?’

“She passed it over to me, and I read the name and address:  ’Miss Minnie Miller, 17, John Street, Mile End Road.’

“‘That’ll wake her up,’ She ses, smiling.  ’Will you ask Joe to take it for me?’

“‘He—­he’s on guard,’ I ses, smiling back at ’er and shaking my ’ead.