Wells grows enthusiastic, and, sucking his pipe-stem, chuckles proudly
over Joe's enormous valour.

But what a fall it is when Joe resumes his life. From being a pirate, a
fighter, and a buffalo-hunter, he becomes--think of it!--a pastrycook.
He leaves the magnificent society of Jack Armstrong, and Black Peter,
and Red Indians, to mix with the commonplace citizens of London--as a
pastrycook! He makes buns. He makes sponge cakes. Think of it--he makes
jam-puffs!

* * * * *

But romance could not leave Joe, even while he toiled before a London
oven.

There was a fire on the premises, and Joe did astonishing things. After
being rescued he walked calmly back, through sheets of fire, to fetch
the cash-box from the parlour. "Never afraid of anythin'--fire, water,
gunpowder, sword, arrows--nothin'! No fear. Always brave. Ho! Ho!
Brave's lion."

"Tell the genneman," shouted Mr. Wells, "what became of the shop."

"Ho, business failed," roars Joe. "Pastry-cook I was. Came
down--_smash_! Lost everythin'. Every penny! Ho! Ho! But what's odds?
Happy and jolly! Nothin' wrong. I'm a'right. What's odds?"

"Your old missus is dead, ain't she, Joe?" shouts Mr. Wells.

"Ess," answers Joe cheerfully. "Gone. Dead." He points towards the floor
with a twitching finger, and stabs downward. "Dead. Years ago. Gone."

"And what about your boy?" asks Mr. Wells.

"No good," roars Joe, in half a rage. "He's no good. No good 't all.
Brought him up like genneman. No good." He laughs again, shakes himself
in his chair, and strikes another match.

"He was selling things in the street when the clergyman found him," says
Mr. Wells behind his pipe. "Had a little tray strapped on to his
shoulders, and two sticks to keep him standing. Collar-studs, tie-clips,
bootlaces, matches--you know. You've often seen trays like that, I dare
say. Well, that was what Joe was doing when the clergyman found him. Not
this clergyman, you understand. The one before, Father Vivian. He's now
a bishop. Out somewhere in Africa. That's his photograph on the wall
over there. He sent us a picture-postcard the other day. Little black
woolly-headed baby with no clothes on! I haven't seen it myself, because
my eyes are bad; but they all laugh at it, and I dare say it's funny
enough. A nice man Father Vivian was. A genneman. He's a bishop now, but
he don't forget his old friends, do he?"

* * * * *

And as we