It was a very good letter, but I can see now that I done wrong in writing it.  I was going to post it to ’im, but, as I couldn’t find an envelope without the name of the blessed wharf on it, I put it in my pocket till I got ’ome.

I got ’ome at about a quarter to seven, and slept like a child till pretty near four.  Then I went downstairs to ’ave my dinner.

The moment I opened the door I see there was something wrong.  Three times my missis licked ’er lips afore she could speak.  Her face ’ad gone a dirty white colour, and she was leaning forward with her ’ands on her ’ips, trembling all over with temper.

“Is my dinner ready?” I ses, easy-like. “’Cos I’m ready for it.”

“I—­I wonder I don’t tear you limb from limb,” she ses, catching her breath.

“Wot’s the matter?” I ses.

“And then boil you,” she ses, between her teeth.  “You in one pot and your precious Dorothy in another.”

If anybody ‘ad offered me five pounds to speak then, I couldn’t ha’ done it.  I see wot I’d done in a flash, and I couldn’t say a word; but I kept my presence o’ mind, and as she came round one side o’ the table I went round the other.

“Wot ’ave you got to say for yourself?” she ses, with a scream.

“Nothing,” I ses, at last.  “It’s all a mistake.”

“Mistake?” she ses.  “Yes, you made a mistake leaving it in your pocket; that’s all the mistake you’ve made.  That’s wot you do, is it, when you’re supposed to be at the wharf?  Go about with a blue ’at with red roses in it!  At your time o’ life, and a wife at ’ome working herself to death to make both ends meet and keep you respectable!”

“It’s all a mistake,” I ses.  “The letter wasn’t for me.”

“Oh, no, o’ course not,” she ses.  “That’s why you’d got it in your pocket, I suppose.  And I suppose you’ll say your name ain’t Bill next.”

“Don’t say things you’ll be sorry for,” I ses.

“I’ll take care o’ that,” she ses.  “I might be sorry for not saying some things, but I don’t think I shall.”

I don’t think she was.  I don’t think she forgot anything, and she raked up things that I ’ad contradicted years ago and wot I thought was all forgot.  And every now and then, when she stopped for breath, she’d try and get round to the same side of the table I was.

She follered me to the street door when I went and called things up the road arter me.  I ’ad a snack at a coffee-shop for my dinner, but I ’adn’t got much appetite for it; I was too full of trouble and finding fault with myself, and I went off to my work with a ’art as heavy as lead.

I suppose I ’adn’t been on the wharf ten minutes afore Cap’n Smithers came sidling up to me, but I got my spoke in fust.

“Look ’ere,” I ses, “if you’re going to talk about that forward hussy wot’s been writing to you, I ain’t.  I’m sick and tired of ’er.”

“Forward hussy!” he ses.  “Forward hussy!” And afore I could drop my broom he gave me a punch in the jaw that pretty near broke it.  “Say another word against her,” he ses, “and I’ll knock your ugly ’ead off.  How dare you insult a lady?”