“I hope you’ll excuse me staring,” he ses, very perlite; “but I’ve never seen such a face and figger as yours in all my life—­never.”

“Ah, you ought to ha’ seen me a few years ago,” I ses.  “I’m like everybody else—­I’m getting on.”

“Rubbish!” he ses.  “You couldn’t be better if you tried.  It’s marvellous!  Wonderful!  It’s the very thing I’ve been looking for.  Why, if you’d been made to order you couldn’t ha’ been better.”

I thought at fust he was by way of trying to get a drink out o’ me—­I’ve been played that game afore—­but instead o’ that he asked me whether I’d do ’im the pleasure of ’aving one with ’im.

We went over to the Albion, and I believe I could have ’ad it in a pail if I’d on’y liked to say the word.  And all the time I was drinking he was looking me up and down, till I didn’t know where to look, as the saying is.

“I came down ’ere to look for somebody like you,” he ses, “but I never dreamt I should have such luck as this.  I’m an actor, and I’ve got to play the part of a sailor, and I’ve been worried some time ’ow to make up for the part.  D’ye understand?”

“No,” I ses, looking at ’im.

“I want to look the real thing,” he ses, speaking low so the landlord shouldn’t hear.  “I want to make myself the living image of you.  If that don’t fetch ’em I’ll give up the stage and grow cabbages.”

“Make yourself like me?” I ses.  “Why, you’re no more like me than I’m like a sea-sick monkey.”

“Not so much,” he ses.  “That’s where the art comes in.”

He stood me another drink, and then, taking my arm in a cuddling sort o’ way, and calling me “Dear boy,” ’e led me back to the wharf and explained.  He said ’e would come round next evening with wot ’e called his make-up box, and paint ’is face and make ’imself up till people wouldn’t know one from the other.

“And wot about your figger?” I ses, looking at ’im.

“A cushion,” he ses, winking, “or maybe a couple.  And what about clothes?  You’ll ’ave to sell me those you’ve got on.  Hat and all.  And boots.”

I put a price on ’em that I thought would ’ave finished ’im then and there, but it didn’t.  And at last, arter paying me so many more compliments that they began to get into my ’ead, he fixed up a meeting for the next night and went off.

“And mind,” he ses, coming back, “not a word to a living soul!”

He went off agin, and, arter going to the Bull’s Head and ’aving a pint to clear my ’ead, I went and sat down in the office and thought it over.  It seemed all right to me as far as I could see; but p’r’aps the pint didn’t clear my ’ead enough—­p’r’aps I ought to ’ave ’ad two pints.

I lay awake best part of next day thinking it over, and when I got up I ’ad made up my mind.  I put my clothes in a sack, and then I put on some others as much like ’em as possible, on’y p’r’aps a bit older, in case the missis should get asking questions; and then I sat wondering ’ow to get out with the sack without ’er noticing it.  She’s got a very inquiring mind, and I wasn’t going to tell her any lies about it.  Besides which I couldn’t think of one.