“Nor me neither,” ses Peter Russet.

“To think of our Ginger being called a coward,” ses old Sam, with a shudder, “and afore a gal, too.”

“The loveliest gal in Wapping,” ses Peter.

“Look ’ere,” ses Ginger, “you can shut up, both of you.  I’m not going, and that’s the long and short of it.  I don’t mind an ordinary man, but I draw the line at prize-fighters.”

Old Sam sat down on the edge of ’is bed and looked the picture of despair.  “You must go, Ginger,” he ses, “for my sake.”

“Your sake?” ses Ginger, staring.

“I’ve got money on it,” ses Sam, “so’s Peter.  If you don’t turn up all bets’ll be off.”

“Good job for you, too,” ses Ginger.  “If I did turn up you’d lose it, to a dead certainty.”

Old Sam coughed and looked at Peter, and Peter ’e coughed and looked at Sam.

“You don’t understand, Ginger,” said Sam, in a soft voice; “it ain’t often a chap gets the chance o’ making a bit o’ money these ’ard times.”

“So we’ve put all our money on Bill Lumm,” ses Peter.  “It’s the safest and easiest way o’ making money I ever ’eard of.  You see, we know you’re not a prize-fighter and the others don’t.”

Pore Ginger looked at ’em, and then ’e called ’em all the names he could lay ‘is tongue to, but, with the idea o’ the money they was going make, they didn’t mind a bit.  They let him ’ave ’is say, and that night they brought ’ome two other sailormen wot ’ad bet agin Ginger to share their room, and, though they ’ad bet agin ’im, they was so fond of ’im that it was evident that they wasn’t going to leave ’im till the fight was over.

Ginger gave up then, and at twelve o’clock next day they started off to find the place.  Mr. Webson, the landlord of the Jolly Pilots, a short, fat man o’ fifty, wot ’ad spoke to Ginger once or twice, went with ’em, and all the way to the station he kept saying wot a jolly spot it was for that sort o’ thing.  Perfickly private; nice soft green grass to be knocked down on, and larks up in the air singing away as if they’d never leave off.

They took the train to Homerton, and, being a slack time o’ the day, the porters was surprised to see wot a lot o’ people was travelling by it.  So was Ginger.  There was the landlords of ’arf the public-’ouses in Wapping, all smoking big cigars; two dock policemen in plain clothes, wot ’ad got the arternoon off—­one with a raging toothache and the other with a baby wot wasn’t expected to last the day out.  They was as full o’ fun as kittens, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots pointed out to Ginger wot reasonable ’uman beings policemen was at ’art.  Besides them there was quite a lot o’ sailormen, even skippers and mates, nearly all of ’em smoking big cigars, too, and looking at Ginger out of the corner of one eye and at the Wapping Basher out of the corner of the other.

“Hit ’ard and hit straight,” ses the landlord to Ginger in a low voice, as they got out of the train and walked up the road. “’Ow are you feeling?”