“I was put in prison,” he says, with a roar of laughter.  “Two years.  In Allybammer.  Two years in dungeon.  In the Harbour there.  Allybammer Harbour.”

“Alabama, he means,” whispers Mr. Wells.  “You’ve heard of Alabama, I dare say?  Somewhere in Ameriky, isn’t it?  Ah!  Well, that’s what Joe means—­Alabama.”

“Two years!” laughed Joe; and then, with a great roar of delight, he adds, “Went off my nut!  In dungeon.  Clean off my nut!”

“What Joe means,” whispers Mr. Wells, slowly and dogmatically, “is that, while he was in prison in Alabama Harbour, he lost his reason:  ’Off his nut’ is slang for losing his reason.  Now, I dare say that that is true.  I shouldn’t be surprised if it was.”

“Then I went Canada,” bellows Joe, striking a fresh match.  “Buff’lo hunter!  Ho!  Ho!  Fought the Injuns.  Red Injuns.  Killed hundreds. Slish!  C-r-r-r-r!  Bang!  Dash!  Gurrrr! Hundreds.  Red Injuns!  I killed hundreds myself.  Ho!  Ho!  I dashed their brains out.  Ho!  Ho!  Injuns.  Red Injuns!”

It is some time before he grows really calm after illustrating with tremendous energy his ferocity against the poor Red Indians.  Even Mr. Wells grows enthusiastic, and, sucking his pipe-stem, chuckles proudly over Joe’s enormous valour.

But what a fall it is when Joe resumes his life.  From being a pirate, a fighter, and a buffalo-hunter, he becomes—­think of it!—­a pastrycook.  He leaves the magnificent society of Jack Armstrong, and Black Peter, and Red Indians, to mix with the commonplace citizens of London—­as a pastrycook!  He makes buns.  He makes sponge cakes.  Think of it—­he makes jam-puffs!

* * * * *

But romance could not leave Joe, even while he toiled before a London oven.

There was a fire on the premises, and Joe did astonishing things.  After being rescued he walked calmly back, through sheets of fire, to fetch the cash-box from the parlour.  “Never afraid of anythin’—­fire, water, gunpowder, sword, arrows—­nothin’!  No fear.  Always brave.  Ho!  Ho!  Brave’s lion.”

“Tell the genneman,” shouted Mr. Wells, “what became of the shop.”

“Ho, business failed,” roars Joe.  “Pastry-cook I was.  Came down—­smash!  Lost everythin’.  Every penny!  Ho!  Ho!  But what’s odds?  Happy and jolly!  Nothin’ wrong.  I’m a’right.  What’s odds?”

“Your old missus is dead, ain’t she, Joe?” shouts Mr. Wells.

“Ess,” answers Joe cheerfully.  “Gone.  Dead.”  He points towards the floor with a twitching finger, and stabs downward.  “Dead.  Years ago.  Gone.”

“And what about your boy?” asks Mr. Wells.

“No good,” roars Joe, in half a rage.  “He’s no good.  No good ’t all.  Brought him up like genneman.  No good.”  He laughs again, shakes himself in his chair, and strikes another match.