"Good 'ealth," said the fireman, and disposed of his share at a
draught. "That's bucked me up wonderful."
He lay back in his chair and from a little tobacco-box began to
fill a short clay pipe.
"Look 'ere, mates, I'm soberin' up, like, after the smoke, an' I
can see, I can see plain, as nobody'll ever believe me. Nobody
ever does, worse luck, but 'ere goes. Pass the matches."
He lighted his pipe, and looking about him in a sort of vaguely
aggressive way:
"Last night," he resumed, "after I was chucked out of the Dock
Gates, I made up my mind to go and smoke a pipe with old Ma
Lorenzo. Round I goes to Pennyfields, and she don't seem glad to
see me. There's nobody there only me. Not like the old days
when you 'ad to book your seat in advance."
He laughed gruffly.
"She didn't want to let me in at first, said they was watched,
that if a Chink 'ad an old pipe wot 'ad b'longed to 'is
grandfather it was good enough to get 'im fined fifty quid.
Anyway, me bein' an old friend she spread a mat for me and filled
me a pipe. I asked after old Kwen Lung, but, of course, 'e was
out gamblin', as usual; so after old Ma Lorenzo 'ad made me
comfortable an' gone out I 'ad the place to myself, and presently
I dozed off and forgot all about bloody ship's bunkers an'
nigger-drivin' Scotchmen.
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