u see 'im last?" inquired the counsel for
the defence, motioning the fermenting Mr. Brown to keep still.

"No," said Billy, firmly; "not a bit."

"Wot's your name?"

"Billy," was the reply.

"Billy wot?"

"Billy Jones."

Mr. Green's face cleared, and he turned to his friends with a smile of
joyous triumph. Sam's face reflected his own, but Charlie Legge's was
still overcast.

"It ain't likely," he said impressively; "it ain't likely as Sam would
go and get married twice in the same name, is it? Put it to yourself,
'Arry--would you?

"Look 'ere," exclaimed the infuriated Mr. Brown, "don't you interfere
in my business. You're a crocodile, that's wot you are. As for you, you
little varmint, you run off, d'ye hear?"

He moved on swiftly, accompanied by the other two, and set an example
of looking straight ahead of him, which was, however, lost upon his
friends.

"'E's still following of you, Sam," said the crocodile, in by no means
disappointed tones.

"Sticking like a leech," confirmed Mr. Green. "'E's a pretty little
chap, rather."

"Takes arter 'is mother," said the vengeful Mr. Legge.

The unfortunate Sam said nothing, but strode a haunted man down
Nightingale Lane into Wapping High Street, and so to the ketch _Nancy
Bell_, which was lying at Shrimpett's Wharf. He stepped on board without
a word, and only when he turned to descend the forecastle ladder did his
gaze rest for a moment on the small, forlorn piece of humanity standing
on the wharf.

"Halloa, boy, what do you want?" cried the skipper, catching sight of
him.

"Want my father, sir--Sam," replied the youth, who had kept his ears
open.

The skipper got up from his seat and eyed him curiously; Messrs. Legge
and Green, drawing near, explained the situation. Now the skipper was
a worldly man; and Samuel Brown, A.B., when at home, played a brass
instrument in the Salvation Army band. He regarded the boy kindly and
spoke to him fair.

"Don't run away," he said, anxiously.

"I'm not going to, sir," said Master Jones, charmed with his manner,
and he watched breathlessly as the skipper stepped forward, and, peering
down the forecastle, called loudly for Sam.

"Yes, sir," said a worried voice.

"Your boy's asking after you," said the skipper, grinning madly.

"He's not my boy, sir," replied Mr. Brown, through his clenched teeth.

"Well, you'd better come up and see him," said the other. "Are you sure
he isn't, Sam?"

Mr. Brown made no re