"Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. “I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. “Did they ever try it for themselves?” He wrestled his chin between her thighs as she tried to squeeze her legs shut upon his ears. When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. She tore open the envelope and read it.
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