“And right you was,” he cried. “Now you⁠—what do you call yourself, mate?”

“Jim,” I told him.

“Jim, Jim,” says he, quite pleased, apparently. “Well, now, Jim, I’ve lived that rough as you’d be ashamed to hear of. Now, for instance, you wouldn’t think I had had a pious mother⁠—to look at me?” he asked.

“Why, no, not in particular,” I answered.