th washing. The low-roofed kitchen is their sitting-room, and its
smoky-panelled walls are decorated only with church almanacs and a few
faded photographs.

The room is beautifully clean, and so is the bedroom above, where the
two pensioners sleep in neat little beds. Out of the money allowed them
by a neighbouring church--some nine shillings a week between the
two--they pay a woman five shillings a week "to do for them." As for
themselves, they smoke their pipes in front of the fire, and laugh to
find themselves, after much rough work on the high seas, so happy and
jolly at the end of their days.

"It wasn't always as clean as this, you must understand," says Mr. Wells
confidentially, his sightless eyes blinking with amusement. "When we
first come here the place was simply swarming; swarming it was--you
know, _gentlemen in the overcoats_ we call 'em down here. And the
amusing thing was--there, I did laugh!--Joe could see 'em but couldn't
catch 'em, and I, who might have caught 'em, couldn't see 'em." He leans
over to Joe and shouts, "I was telling the genneman about the bugs when
we first came here!" And Joe lifts his eyebrows, rubs his shoulder
against his chair, and laughs, and says with his pipe in his mouth,
"Ess, sir!" making a pantomimic gesture supposed to represent the
slaughter of vermin.

Little Mr. Wells has a great and fundamental pride in the fact that he
is "eight year younger nor what Joe is." He tells you this interesting
fact more than once, speaking in his wonted low tone of voice, reaching
out with his pipe between his fingers to touch you lightly with his
elbow, and always concluding with the appeal, "You wouldn't think so,
would you?" And then, as the pipe goes back to his mouth, "Well, it is
so," he says, and nods his head at the fire. And Old Joe, who doesn't
care a brass farden, or a bone button for that matter, whether he is
eighty-two or one hundred and eighty-two, has his point of pride in the
certain conviction that if only he had the use of his legs he would be
as strong now as ever he was.

* * * * *

Now, old Joe, for all he is paralysed, has the use of his eyes, whereas
Mr. Wells, who can and does shuffle about pretty freely on his feet, has
not got the use of his.

Joe's sight is a great blessing to him; he can read. He has a sturdy
taste in literature, and will stand none of your milk-and-water stuff.
He likes fighting, plenty of that: and Red Indi