“How do you know?” demanded the other.
“Cos I look at ’im over his shoulder while I’m puttin’ things in the cupboard,” said Henry.
The mate stopped and regarded his hopeful young friend fixedly.
“I s’pose you look over my shoulder too, sometimes?” he suggested.
“You never write to anybody except your wife,” said Henry carelessly, “or your mother. Leastways I’ve never known you to.”
“You’ll come to a bad end, my lad,” said the mate thickly; “that’s what you’ll do.”
“What ’e does with ’em I can’t think,” continued Henry, disregarding his future. “’E don’t give ’em to ’er. Ain’t got the pluck, I s’pose. Phew! Ain’t it ’ot!”
They had got down to the river again, and he hesitated in front of a small beer-shop whose half open door and sanded floor offered a standing invitation to passers-by.
“Could you do a bottle o’ ginger-beer?” inquired the mate, attracted in his turn.
“No,” said Henry shortly, “I couldn’t. I don’t mind having what you’re going to have.”