religion, providin' it's kep' for Sundays and Good Fridays, an' don't get mixed up wi' the rest of the week." 

 He paused and lifted the newly-filled tankard to his lips. Presently he continued reminiscently: 

 "My father 'ad religion, and drunk 'isself to death 'keepin' the chill out.'  Accordin' to 'im, if yer wanted to be 'appy in the next world yer 'ad to be a sort of 'alf fish in this.  'E could tell the tale, 'e could, and wot's more, 'e used to make us believe 'im."  Bindle laughed at the recollection.  "Two or three times a week 'e used to go to chapel to 'wash 'is sins away,' winter an' summer. The parson seemed to 'ave to wash the 'ole bloomin' lot of 'em, and my father never forgot to take somethink on 'is way 'ome to keep the chill out, 'e was that careful of 'isself. 

 "'My life is Gawd's,' 'e used to say, 'an' I must take care of wot is the Lord's.'  There weren't no spots on my father. Why, 'e used to wet 'is 'air to prove 'e'd been ''mersed,' as 'e called it. You'd 'ave liked 'im, Ginger; 'e was a gloomy sort of cove, same as you." 

 Ginger muttered something inarticulate, and buried his freckles and spots in his tankard. Bindle carefully filled his short clay pipe and lit it with a care and precision more appropriate to a cigar. 

 "No," he continued, "I ain't nothink agin' religion; it's the people wot goes in for it as does me. There's my brother-in-law, 'Earty by name, an' my missis—they must make 'eaven tired with their moanin'." 

 "Wot jer marry 'er for?" grumbled Ginger thickly, not with any show of interest, but as if to demonstrate that he was still awake. 

 "Ginger!"  There was reproach in Bindle's voice.  "Fancy you arstin' a silly question like that. Don't yer know as no man ever marries any woman? If 'e's nippy 'e gets orf the 'ook; if 'e ain't 'e's landed. You an' me wasn't nippy enough, ole son, an' 'ere we are." 

 "There's somethin' in that, mate."  There was feeling in Ginger's voice and a momentary alertness in his eye. 

 "Well," continued Bindle, "once on the 'ook there's only one thing that'll save yer—tack." 

 "Or 'ammerin 'er blue," interpolated Ginger viciously. 

 "I draws the line there; I don't 'old with 'ammerin' women. Yer can't 'ammer somethink wot can't 'ammer back, Ginger; that's 

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