Mr. Wheeler sighed, but whether at the thought of what he might have lost or what he had gained, cannot be safely determined. Still in a morbid mood, he relapsed into silence, leaving Fraser to glance anxiously to where Poppy, pale and pretty, sat listening to the clumsy overtures of Mr. Bob Wheeler.
“I might ’ave ’ad two or three sailors if I’d liked,” continued Mrs. Wheeler, musingly, “but I wouldn’t.”
Fraser murmured his admiration at her firmness.
“There was Tom Rogers, ’e was the first,” said Mrs. Wheeler; “you remember ’im, father?”
“Chap with bow legs and a squint, wasn’t he?” said the dock-foreman, anxious to please.
“I never saw ’im squint,” said his wife, sharply. “Then there was Robert Moore—he was number two, I think.”
“’Ad a wife a’ready,” said Mr. Wheeler, turning to the visitor; “’e was a bright lot, ’e was.”
“I don’t know what they saw in me, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Wheeler, with a little modest laugh; “it wasn’t my good looks, I’m sure.”
“You ’ad something better than good looks, my dear,” said the dock-foreman, affectionately, “something what’s wore better.”
Mrs. Wheeler turned on the sofa, and detecting Gussie in the act of using his mouth as a moneybox, upbraided him shrilly and sent him into a corner. She then brought sundry charges of omission and commission against the other children, until the air was thick with denials and explanations, in the midst of which Fraser turned towards Poppy.