“Well,” Simmons admitted, uneasily, “I—­I do ’elp ‘er sometimes, o’ course.”

“Ah!  An’ the knives too, I bet, an’ the bloomin’ kittles.  I know.  W’y”—­he rose and bent to look behind Simmons’s head—­“s’ ’elp me, I b’lieve she cuts yer ‘air!  Well, I’m dammed!  Jes’ wot she would do, too.”

He inspected the blushing Simmons from divers points of vantage.  Then he lifted a leg of the trousers hanging behind the door.  “I’d bet a trifle,” he said, “she made these ’ere trucks.  No-body else ’ud do ’em like that.  Damme! they’re wuss’n wot you’ve got on.”

The small devil began to have the argument all its own way.  If this man took his wife back perhaps he’d have to wear those trousers.

“Ah,” Ford pursued, “she ain’t got no milder.  An’, my davy, wot a jore!”

Simmons began to feel that this was no longer his business.  Plainly, ’Anner was this other man’s wife, and he was bound in honour to acknowledge the fact.  The small devil put it to him as a matter of duty.

“Well,” said Ford, suddenly, “time’s short an’ this ain’t business.  I won’t be ’ard on you, matey.  I ought prop’ly to stand on my rights, but seein’ as you’re a well-meaning young man, so to speak, an’ all settled an’ a-livin’ ‘ere quiet an’ matrimonual, I’ll”—­this with a burst of generosity—­“damme! yus, I’ll compound the felony an’ take me ’ook.  Come, I’ll name a figure, as man to man, fust an’ last, no less an’ no more.  Five pound does it.”

Simmons hadn’t five pounds,—­he hadn’t even fivepence,—­and he said so.  “An’ I wouldn’t think to come between a man an’ ’is wife,” he added, “not on no account.  It may be rough on me, but it’s a dooty. I’ll ’ook it.”

“No,” said Ford, hastily, clutching Simmons by the arm, “don’t do that.  I’ll make it a bit cheaper.  Say three quid—­come, that’s reasonable, ain’t it?  Three quid ain’t much compensation for me goin’ away for ever—­where the stormy winds do blow, so to say—­an’ never as much as seein’ me own wife agin for better nor wuss.  Between man an’ man, now, three quid, an’ I’ll shunt.  That’s fair, ain’t it?”

“Of course it’s fair,” Simmons replied, effusively.  “It’s more’n fair:  it’s noble—­downright noble, I call it.  But I ain’t goin’ to take a mean advantage o’ your good-’artedness, Mr. Ford.  She’s your wife, an’ I oughtn’t to ‘a’ come between you.  I apologise.  You stop an’ ’ave yer proper rights.  It’s me as ought to shunt, an’ I will.”  And he made a step toward the door.

“’Old on,” quoth Ford, and got between Simmons and the door; “don’t do things rash.  Look wot a loss it’ll be to you with no ’ome to go to, an’ nobody to look after ye, an’ all that.  It’ll be dreadful.  Say a couple—­there, we won’t quarrel, jest a single quid, between man an’ man, an’ I’ll stand a pot out o’ the money.  You can easy raise a quid—­the clock ‘ud pretty nigh do it.  A quid does it, an’ I’ll—­”

There was a loud double knock at the front door.  In the East End a double knock is always for the upstairs lodgers.