Mr. Goodman didn't answer 'im because 'e was joining in the chorus with
one side of 'is mouth and keeping 'is cigar alight with the other. He
just nodded at 'im; but 'e looked so 'appy that Sam felt it was a
pleasure to sit there and look at 'im.

"I wonder wot Peter and Ginger is doin'?" he ses, when the song was
finished.

"I don't know," ses Mr. Goodman, "and, wot's more, I don't care. If I'd
'ad any idea that Peter was like wot he is I should never 'ave wrote to
'im. I can't think 'ow you can stand 'im."

"He ain't so bad," ses Sam, wondering whether he ought to tell 'im 'arf
of wot Peter really was like.

"Bad!" ses Mr. Goodman. "I come up to London for a 'oliday--a change,
mind you--and I thought Peter and me was going to 'ave a good time.
Instead o' that, he goes about with a face as long as a fiddle. He don't
drink, 'e don't go to places of amusement--innercent places of amusement
--and 'is idea of enjoying life is to go walking about the streets and
drinking cups o' tea."

"We must try and alter 'im," ses Sam, arter doing a bit o' thinking.

"Certainly not," ses Mr. Goodman, laying his 'and on Sam's knee. "Far be
it from me to interfere with a feller-creature's ideas o' wot's right.
Besides, he might get writing to 'is sister agin, and she might tell my
wife."