He got up off the bed and put his ’ands up as Ginger walked across the room to ’im, but Ginger on’y wanted to shake ’ands, and arter he ’ad done that ’e patted ’im on the back and smiled at ’im.

“I’ll try it,” he ses.  “I’d tell any lies for ’er sake.  Ah! you don’t know wot love is, Sam.”

“I used to,” ses Sam, and then he sat down agin and began to tell ’em all the love-affairs he could remember, until at last Peter Russet got tired and said it was ’ard to believe, looking at ’im now, wot a perfick terror he’d been with gals, and said that the face he’d got now was a judgment on ’im.  Sam shut up arter that, and got into trouble with Peter in the middle o’ the night by waking ’im up to tell ’im something that he ’ad just thought of about his face.

The more Ginger thought o’ Sam’s idea the more he liked it, and the very next evening ‘e took Peter Russet into the private bar o’ the Jolly Pilots.  He ordered port wine, which he thought seemed more ’igh-class than beer, and then Peter Russet started talking to Miss Tucker and told her that Ginger was a prize-fighter from Sydney, where he’d beat everybody that stood up to ’im.

The gal seemed to change toward Ginger all in a flash, and ’er beautiful black eyes looked at ’im so admiring that he felt quite faint.  She started talking to ’im about his fights at once, and when at last ’e plucked up courage to ask ’er to go for a walk with ’im on Sunday arternoon she seemed quite delighted.

“It’ll be a nice change for me,” she ses, smiling.  “I used to walk out with a prize-fighter once before, and since I gave ’im up I began to think I was never going to ’ave a young man agin.  You can’t think ’ow dull it’s been.”

“Must ha’ been,” ses Ginger.

“I s’pose you’ve got a taste for prize-fighters, miss,” ses Peter Russet.

“No,” ses Miss Tucker; “I don’t think that it’s that exactly, but, you see, I couldn’t ’ave anybody else.  Not for their own sakes.”

[Illustration:  “Miss Tucker.”]

“Why not?” ses Ginger, looking puzzled.

“Why not?” ses Miss Tucker.  “Why, because o’ Bill.  He’s such a ’orrid jealous disposition.  After I gave ’im up I walked out with a young fellow named Smith; fine, big, strapping chap ’e was, too, and I never saw such a change in any man as there was in ’im after Bill ’ad done with ’im.  I couldn’t believe it was ’im.  I told Bill he ought to be ashamed of ’imself.”

“Wot did ’e say?” asks Ginger.

“Don’t ask me wot ’e said,” ses Miss Tucker, tossing her ’ead.  “Not liking to be beat, I ’ad one more try with a young fellow named Charlie Webb.”

“Wot ’appened to ’im?” ses Peter Russet, arter waiting a bit for ’er to finish.

“I can’t bear to talk of it,” ses Miss Tucker, holding up Ginger’s glass and giving the counter a wipe down.  “He met Bill, and I saw ’im six weeks afterward just as ’e was being sent away from the ’ospital to a seaside home.  Bill disappeared after that.”