His Majesty the King has no more loyal and affectionate subjects.  A friend of mine carried the two old gentlemen off to a Coronation dinner.  They had a hundred things to complain of concerning the way in which the plates were whisked off before they had even got the savour of the dish in their nostrils; but when it came to singing “God save the King” they roared and cheered and shouted and cheered again, and cried till the tears ran down their faces.  And now, among their possessions, there is nothing of which they are more proud than the gorgeous card telling how the King and Queen of England requested the favour of their society to a banquet.  It is splendid to see these two old sea-dogs in their kitchen fingering that card and smiling over it with a pride not to be matched in all the world outside.

* * * * *

I have never heard them complain.  They are old friends of mine.  I have smoked many a pipe in their kitchen; but never yet did I hear murmur or complaint from their lips.  Never once.  They are most beautifully happy.  They are radiant in their happiness.  I do not believe there is a room in the world in which laughter is more constant and more spontaneous than in the little low-roofed black kitchen where the paralytic old pirate and the blind old seaman smoke their pipes and chuckle over the things they have done, the sights they have seen, and the storms they have weathered.

Opposite to the two old gentlemen lives a great friend of theirs, a maker of rag-dolls—­a grey-headed, bent-back old veteran named Mr. Kight.  I happened to be calling on the two old gentlemen on the Fifth of November last year, and, entering the kitchen, and while shaking hands with Joe (who always roars with laughter when he clutches your hand, and shakes it backwards and forwards as if he meant never to let it go) little Mr. Wells came fumbling to my side, laughing and chuckling, evidently with important news.

“You know it’s the Fifth of November,” he said, nudging me with the elbow of the hand which held his pipe.  “You know that, don’t you?  Everybody knows that.  Well, I’ve been telling Old Joe that he ought to let me and Mr. Kight shove a couple o’ broom-sticks under his Grandfer Chair and carry him out into the streets.  He’d make a lovely Guy, wouldn’t he?”

Mr. Wells joined a treble of laughter to the continuous bass of Joe’s gurgle, and then, stooping forward:  “Joe,” he shouted, “I’m telling the genneman you ought to let me and Kight take you out in your chair for a Guy Fawkes.”

At this Old Joe’s mouth opened wider than ever, his face became purple, and he pretended very hard indeed to laugh with a relish.  But the jest hurt him.  I saw, what Mr. Wells could not see, the hurt look in his old eyes, and, leaning to his ear, I shouted, “You’d have all the girls running after you, Joe!  You’re too handsome for a Guy.  They’d run you off to church and marry you as sure as a gun.”