I couldn’t get away from ’em, and when I told them I ’ad never danced in my life the cook asked me where I expected to go to.  He told the drayman that I’d been dancing like a fairy in sea-boots, and they all got in front of me and wouldn’t let me pass.  I lost my temper at last, and, arter they ’ad taken the broom away from me and the drayman and one o’ the sailormen ’ad said wot they’d do to me if I was on’y fifty years younger, they sheered off.

I locked the gate arter ’em and went back to the office, and I ’adn’t been there above ’arf an hour when somebody started ringing the gate-bell as if they was mad.  I thought it was the cook’s lot come back at fust, so I opened the wicket just a trifle and peeped out.  There was a ’ansom-cab standing outside, and I ’ad hardly got my nose to the crack when the actor-chap, still in my clothes, pushed the door open and nipped in.

“You’ve lost,” he ses, pushing the door to and smiling all over.  “Where’s your sixpence?”

“Lost?” I ses, hardly able to speak.  “D’ye mean to tell me you’ve been to my wife arter all—­arter all I said to you?”

“I do,” he ses, nodding, and smiling agin.  “They were both deceived as easy as easy.”

“Both?” I ses, staring at ’im.  “Both wot?  ’Ow many wives d’ye think I’ve got?  Wot d’ye mean by it?”

“Arter I left you,” he ses, giving me a little poke in the ribs, “I picked up a cab and, fust leaving my bag at Aldgate, I drove on to your ’ouse and knocked at the door.  I knocked twice, and then an angry-looking woman opened it and asked me wot I wanted.

“‘It’s all right, missis,’ I ses.  ’I’ve got ’arf an hour off, and I’ve come to take you out for a walk.’

“‘Wot?’ she ses, drawing back with a start.

“‘Just a little turn round to see the shops,’ I ses; ’and if there’s anything particler you’d like and it don’t cost too much, you shall ’ave it.’

“I thought at fust, from the way she took it, she wasn’t used to you giving ’er things.

“‘Ow dare you!’ she ses.  ’I’ll ’ave you locked up.  ’Ow dare you insult a respectable married woman!  You wait till my ’usband comes ‘ome.’

“’But I am your ‘usband,’ I ses.  ’Don’t you know me, my pretty?  Don’t you know your pet sailor-boy?’

“She gave a screech like a steam-injin, and then she went next door and began knocking away like mad.  Then I see that I ’ad gorn to number twelve instead of number fourteen.  Your wife, your real wife, came out of number fourteen—­and she was worse than the other.  But they both thought it was you—­there’s no doubt of that.  They chased me all the way up the road, and if it ‘adn’t ha’ been for this cab that was just passing I don’t know wot would ’ave ’appened to me.”

He shook his ’ead and smiled agin, and, arter opening the wicket a trifle and telling the cabman he shouldn’t be long, he turned to me and asked me for the sixpence, to wear on his watch-chain.