The boatswain fidgeted. "If you don't agree, mum's the word and no 'arm
done," he said, holding out his hand.

"Mum's the word," said the soldier, taking it. "My name's Ned Travers,
and, barring cells for a spree now and again, there's nothing against it.
Mind that."

"Might 'appen to anybody," said Mr. Benn, soothingly. "You fill your
pipe and don't go chucking good tobacco away agin."

Mr. Travers took the offered box and, with economy born of adversity,
stooped and filled up first with the plug he had thrown away. Then he
resumed his seat and, leaning back luxuriously, bade the other "fire
away."

"I ain't got it all ship-shape and proper yet," said Mr. Benn, slowly,
"but it's in my mind's eye. It's been there off and on like for some
time."

He lit his pipe again and gazed fixedly at the opposite hedge. "Two
miles from here, where I live," he said, after several vigorous puffs,
"there's a little public-'ouse called the Beehive, kept by a lady wot
I've got my eye on."

The soldier sat up.

"She won't 'ave me," said the boatswain, with an air of mild surprise.

The soldier leaned back again.