name was Philbert Chaffin. He was a tall, slim boy, with
blue eyes and light hair, the son of a stage carpenter, who
was employed at one of the cheap theatres and who lived
within a stone's throw of my lodgings. His language was a
unique combination of bad grammar and provincial brogue; but
every boy in the warehouse allowed that he was a good
fellow. He had spent many an evening with me, and confided
to me many a secret which, owing to solemn pledges made at
that time, I am not at liberty to divulge, before he invited
me to dine and spend an evening with the family. I accepted
his invitation gratefully, and the next evening Phil took me
over. It was a hearty welcome that I received at the home of
the Chaffins. My enjoyment of their simple hospitality would
have been perfect but for the embarrassment I felt at the
many apologies with which it was offered. Mrs. Chaffin knew
as 'ow the tea was not as good as I was used to drinking,
but she 'oped it didn't taste "murky." I assured her that it
did not taste murky, although a little doubtful as to the
exact significance of the word when applied to tea. But in
spite of my declaration she insisted that it must taste
"murky" to one who was accustomed to better things. The ham
was never too good in Liverpool, but she 'oped that it
wasn't "reesty." I solemnly declared that it was not
"reesty." But Mrs. Chaffin and Mr. Chaffin out of the
goodness of their hearts continued to condole with me on the
score that such ham tasted and must taste "reesty" to one
not used to it. I had no sooner satisfied their misgivings
concerning the ham than I was compelled to take issue with
them as to the bread, regarding which they entertained a
lurking suspicion of staleness. During all of this