"What's all this?" he demanded, throwing the door open with a flourish.

Mr. Sadler, still holding the fire-shovel sceptre-fashion and still with
the paper cap on his head, opened his mouth to reply. Then, as he saw
the unkempt figure of Mr. Hatchard with the scared face of Mrs. Hatchard
peeping over his shoulder, his face grew red, his eyes watered, and his
cheeks swelled.

"K-K-K-Kch! K-Kch!" he said, explosively. "Talk English, not Chinese,"
said Mr. Hatchard, sternly.

[Illustration: "'K-K-K-Kch! K-Kch!' he said, explosively."]

Mr. Sadler threw down the fire-shovel, and to Mr. Hatchard's great
annoyance, clapped his open hand over his mouth and rocked with
merriment.

"Sh--sh--she--she--" he spluttered.

"That'll do," said Mr. Hatchard, hastily, with a warning frown.

"Kow-towed to me," gurgled Mr. Sadler. "You ought to have seen it, Alf.
I shall never get over it--never. It's--no--no good win-winking at me; I
can't help myself."

He put his handkerchief to his eyes and leaned back exhausted. When he
removed it, he found himself alone and everything still but for a murmur
of voices overhead. Anon steps sounded on the stairs, and Mr. Hatchard,
grave of face, entered the room.