I thought I should ’ave gone crazy at fust, but I went off into the office without a word.  Some men would ha’ knocked ’im down for it, but I made allowances for ‘is state o’ mind, and I stayed inside until I see ’im get aboard agin.

He was sitting on deck when I went out, and his missis too, but neither of ’em spoke a word.  I picked up my broom and went on sweeping, when suddenly I ’eard a voice at the gate I thought I knew, and in came my wife.

“Ho!” she ses, calling out.  “Ain’t you gone to meet that gal at Cleopatra’s Needle yet?  You ain’t going to keep ’er waiting, are you?”

“H’sh!” I ses.

“H’sh! yourself,” she ses, shouting.  “I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.  I don’t go to meet other people’s husbands in a blue ’at with red roses.  I don’t write ’em love-letters, and say ‘H’sh!’ to my wife when she ventures to make a remark about it.  I may work myself to skin and bone for a man wot’s old enough to know better, but I’m not going to be trod on.  Dorothy, indeed!  I’ll Dorothy ’er if I get the chance.”

Mrs. Smithers, wot ’ad been listening with all her ears, jumped up, and so did the skipper, and Mrs. Smithers came to the side in two steps.

“Did you say ‘Dorothy,’ ma’am?” she ses to my missis.

“I did,” ses my wife.  “She’s been writing to my husband.”

“It must be the same one,” ses Mrs. Smithers.  “She’s been writing to mine too.”

The two of ’em stood there looking at each other for a minute, and then my wife, holding the letter between ’er finger and thumb as if it was pison, passed it to Mrs. Smithers.

“It’s the same,” ses Mrs. Smithers.  “Was the envelope marked ’Private’?”

“I didn’t see no envelope,” ses my missis.  “This is all I found.”

Mrs. Smithers stepped on to the wharf and, taking ’old of my missis by the arm, led her away whispering.  At the same moment the skipper walked across the deck and whispered to me.

“Wot d’ye mean by it?” he ses.  “Wot d’ye mean by ’aving letters from Dorothy and not telling me about it?”

“I can’t help ’aving letters any more than you can,” I ses.  “Now p’r’aps you’ll understand wot I meant by calling ’er a forward hussy.”

“Fancy ’er writing to you!” he ses, wrinkling ’is forehead.  “Pph!  She must be crazy.”

“P’r’aps it ain’t a gal at all,” I ses.  “My belief is somebody is ’aving a game with us.”

“Don’t be a fool,” he ses.  “I’d like to see the party as would make a fool of me like that.  Just see ’im and get my ’ands on him.  He wouldn’t want to play any more games.”

It was no good talking to ’im.  He was ’arf crazy with temper.  If I’d said the letter was meant for ’im he’d ’ave asked me wot I meant by opening it and getting ’im into more trouble with ’is missis, instead of giving it to ’im on the quiet.  I just stood and suffered in silence, and thought wot a lot of ’arm eddication did for people.