“Marriage?”

“Marriage ain’t good for a fightin’ cove—­it spiles him, it shakes ’is nerve, it fair ruinates ’im.  When love flies in at the winder, champeenships fly up the chimbley—­never t’ come back no more.  So beware o’ wives, me lad.”

“Wives!” repeated the Spider, lifting free hand to dazed brow, “I—­I ain’t never—­”

“That’s right!” nodded the Old Un heartily, shaking the Spider’s unresisting hand again, “marriage ain’t love, an’ love ain’t marriage.  Wot’s the old song say: 

“‘Oh, love is like a bloomin’ rose
 But marriage is a bloomin’ thorn. 
 An ’usband ‘s full o’ bloomin’ woes
 An’ ‘caves a bloomin’ sigh each morn—­’”

“Why, Old Un!” exclaimed Ravenslee, “that’s a very remarkable verse!”

“My land!” ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, squaring her elbows in the doorway, “I suspects he’s a poet—­an’ him sech a nice little old gentleman!”

“A poet, ma’am!” exclaimed the Old Un indignantly, “not me, ma’am, not me—­should scorn t’ be.  I’m a ‘ighly respected old fightin’ man, I am, as never went on th’ cross: 

“‘A fightin’ man I, ma’am,
 An’ wish I may die, ma’am,
 If ever my backers I crossed;
 An’ what’s better still, ma’am,
 Though I forgot many a mill, ma’am,
 Not one of ’em ever I lost.’”

“My land!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes again.  “What a memory!”

“Memory, ma’am!” growled Joe, “that ain’t memory; ’e makes ’em up as ’e goes along—­”

“Joe,” said the Old Un, glaring, “if the lady weren’t here, an’ axin’ ‘er pardon—­I’d punch you in the perishin’ eye-’ole for that!”

“All right, old vindictiveness,” sighed Joe, “an’ now, if you’ll let go of Spider Connolly’s fist, I’d like to say ‘ow do.  Sit down an’ give some one else a chance to speak—­sit down, you old bag o’ wind—­”

“Bag o’—­” the old man dropped the Spider’s nerveless hand to turn to Mrs. Trapes with a gloomy brow.  “You ’eard that, ma’am—­you ’eard this perishin’ porker call me a bag o’—­Joe, I blush for ye!  Ma’am, pore Joe means well, but ’e can’t ‘elp bein’ a perisher—­but”—­and here the Old Un raised and shook a feeble old fist—­“I’ve a good mind t’ ketch ’im one as would put ‘im t’ sleep for a fortnight—­I’ve a good mind—­”

But Mrs. Trapes caught that tremulous fist and drawing the Old Un’s arm through her own, turned to the door.

“You come along with me,” said she, “you shall help me t’ get the tea; you shall carry in th’ cake an’—­”

“Cake!” exclaimed the Old Un, “Oh, j’yful word, ma’am; you’re a—­a lidy!  An’ there’s jam, ain’t there?”

“Strawberry!”

“Straw—­oh, music t’ me ears, ma’am—­you’re a nymp’—­lead me to it!” So saying, the Old Un followed Mrs. Trapes out into the kitchen, while the Spider stared after him open-mouthed.