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?”

“I’ve got a cold coming on,” ses pore Ginger, looking at the Basher, who was on in front, “and a splitting ’eadache, and a sharp pain all down my left leg.  I don’t think——­”

“Well, it’s a good job it’s no worse,” ses the land-lord; “all you’ve got to do is to hit ’ard.  If you win it’s a ’undered pounds in my pocket, and I’ll stand you a fiver of it.  D’ye understand?”

They turned down some little streets, several of ’em going diff’rent ways, and arter crossing the River Lea got on to the marshes, and, as the landlord said, the place might ha’ been made for it.

A little chap from Mile End was the referee, and Bill Lumm, ’aving peeled, stood looking on while Ginger took ’is things off and slowly and carefully folded ’em up.  Then they stepped toward each other, Bill taking longer steps than Ginger, and shook ’ands; immediately arter which Bill knocked Ginger head over ’eels.

[Illustration:  “Bill Lumm, ’aving peeled, stood looking on while Ginger took ’is things off.”]

“Time!” was called, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots, who was nursing Ginger on ’is knee, said that it was nothing at all, and that bleeding at the nose was a sign of ’ealth.  But as it happened Ginger was that mad ’e didn’t want any encouragement, he on’y wanted to kill Bill Lumm.