’You don’t say so?  I never was so glad to hear anything in my life!  Ah, but Hood, you’re leaving me behind, old friend; with the little girl doing so well you can’t call yourself a poor devil; you can’t, upon my soul!  I ought to have married; yes, I should ha’ married long ago; it ‘ud a’ been the making of me.  It’s the sole speculation, I do believe, that I haven’t tried.  Ah, but I’ve got something before me now!  What say you to a patent fire-escape that any man can carry round his waist?  Upon my soul, I’ve got it!  I’m going to London about it as soon as I can get my fare; and that I shall have to-morrow, please God.’

‘What brings you to Hebsworth?’

‘I don’t care much to talk about it in a public place,’ replied Cheeseman, with caution which contrasted comically with his loud tone hitherto.  ’Only a little matter, but—­Well, we’ll say nothing about it; I may communicate with you some day.  And you?  Do you live here?’

Hood gave an account of his position.  Under the influence of the glass of spirits, and of the real pleasure it gave him to see one of the very few men he had ever called friend, he had cast aside his cares for the moment.  They went forth presently from the bar, and, after a few paces, Cheeseman took his friend by the coat collar and drew him aside, as if to impart a matter of consequence.

‘Two threes of gin!’ he said, with a roll of the eye which gave his face a singularly humorous expression.  ’That’s sixpence.  A tanner, Hood, was the last coin I possessed.  It was to have purchased dinner, a beefsteak pudding, with cabbage and potatoes; but what o’ that?  When you and I meet, we drink to old times; there’s no getting out of that.’

Hood laughed, for once in a really natural way.  His usual abstemiousness made the gin potent.

‘Why,’ he said, ’I confess to feeling hungry myself; I’ve only had a sandwich.  Come along; we’ll have dinner together.’

‘You mean it, old friend?’ cried the other, with irrepressible delight.

’Of course I mean it.  You don’t think I’ll let you spend your last coin, and send you off dinnerless?  Things are bad, but not quite as bad as that.  I’m as hungry as a hunter; where is there an eating-house?’

They found one at a little distance.

‘It must be beefsteak pudding, Hood,’ whispered Cheeseman, as they entered.  ’I’ve set my heart on that.  Whatever else you like, but a beefsteak pudding to start with.’

The article was procurable, smoking, juicy.  Cheeseman made an incision, then laid down his knife and gloated over his plate.

‘Hood,’ he said, with much solemnity, ’you’ve done me many a kindness, old friend, but this caps all.  I’m bound to you for life and death.  I should have wandered about these streets a starving man.’

The other laughed still; he had a fit of laughter on him; he had not laughed so since he was young.

‘Stout-and-mild is my drink, Hood,’ remarked Cheeseman, suggestively.  ‘It has body, and I need the support.’