On a Saturday afternoon about this time, Uncle Isaac, in his best black suit and very tall hat, and with the Turk’s-head walking-stick in his hand, started out to see a foreman. Work was rather slack just now (shipwrights’ work was slack everywhere), and the three holidays a week that once were the glory and boast of a free and independent shipwright, were now apt to be a woeful compulsion. Uncle Isaac had been of late poorer (because idler) than he liked, and in such case it was his way to seek the chance of meeting his foreman out of hours, in order to a display of rhetoric, oblique flattery, and dexterous suggestion, that might influence a distribution of short time that would be more favourable to the orator.

He had wondered much as to the fortunes of Nan and her children, but as it has been said, his tenderness of heart kept him as far as possible from what he believed must now be a scene of sheer failure and destitution: if, indeed, the shop were not abandoned; and he was by no means anxious that his poor relations should discover his new lodgings. So now he picked his way with circumspection, and with careful cogitation of a mental map of the streets; because a thoughtless straightforward journey would take him much too near to Harbour Lane.

He crossed a swing bridge that gave access to a hundred and fifty yards of roadway ending in another swing bridge. But there was a crook in the road, and when he passed it he found that the second bridge was open. Now in Blackwall an “open” bridge did not mean one that the passenger could cross; that was a “shut” bridge. The “open” bridge was one swung aside to let a ship through, as a pair of gates is opened for a carriage. So Uncle Isaac resigned himself to wait, with an increasingly impatient group, till the bridge should swing into place again and give passage. He stood behind the chain that hung across the road to check traffic, and meditatively rubbed his nose with the Turk’s-head. Presently he grew conscious of a rusty figure on his left, edging unsteadily a little nearer.

“’Ow do, Mr. Mundy?” came a hoarse whisper. And Mother Born-drunk, a trifle less drunk than usual, but careful to grasp a post, leered a grimy leer and waved her disengaged hand in his face, as one saluting a friend at a great distance. Uncle Isaac emitted a non-committal grunt—one that might be taken for an accidental cough by the bystanders—and sidled a foot or two away. For he, too, had known Emma Pacey in her more decent days, and, with other acquaintances of that time, was sometimes put to shifts to avoid her.

Mother Born-drunk left the post and followed her victim. “Don’ run ’way,” she ejaculated, unsteadily. “I’m ole pal. Mish’ Mundy!” She thrust out a foul paw, and dropped her voice coaxingly. “Len’sh twopence!” Uncle Isaac gazed uneasily in another direction, and took more ground to the right. The waiting passengers, glad of a little amusement, grinned one at another.

“J’year, Mr. Mundy!” This in a loud voice, with an imperious gesture. “J’year! Can’tche’ answer when a lady speaks t’ye?”

“Go on, guv’nor!” said a boy encouragingly, sitting on a post. “Where’s yer manners? Take auf yer ’at to the laidy!” And there was a snigger. Uncle Isaac shifted farther still, and put a group of men between himself and his persecutor. But she was not to be so easily shaken off. Drawing herself up with a scornful majesty that was marred by an occasional lurch, and the bobbing of the tangled bonnet hanging over one ear, she came after Uncle Isaac through the passage readily made by the knot of men.

“Ho! so it’s this, is it,” she declaimed, with a stately backward sweep of the arm. “If a lady asks a triflin’ favour you insult ’er. Ye low, common, scoundrel!” This very slowly, with a deep tragedy hiss and a long pause. Then with a piercing note of appeal: “Mr. Mundy! I demand an answer! Once more! Will you lend me twopence?”

The people (a small crowd by this time) forgot the troublesome bridge, and turned to the new diversion. “Give the laidy twopence!” roared the boy on the post, in a deep bass. “’Arf a pint ’ud save ’er life!”

Uncle Isaac looked desperately about him, but he saw no sympathy. Dockmen, workmen, boys—all were agog to see as much fun as possible in the time at disposal. The pursuing harpy came a step nearer, and bawled again, “Will you lend me twopence?”

“No!” cried Uncle Isaac, driven to bay at last. “No, I won’t! Go away! Go away, you—you infamious creacher!”

“You won’t?”

“No, not by no means. Go away. Y’ought to be ashamed of yerself, you—you—you opstroperous faggit!”

“Calls ’isself a gen’leman,” she said, lifting her gaze to the clouds. “Calls ’isself a gen’leman, an’ uses such language to a lady!”

“Shockin’,” said one in the hilarious crowd. “What a wicked ole bloke!”

Uncle Isaac gave another unquiet glance about him, and moved another yard. The woman brought her eyes to earth again, and: “Won’t gimme twopence,” she proclaimed, “an’ I’m a orficer’s widow! Never mind, len’ me a penny; on’y a penny, Mr. Mundy. Do, there’sh a dear! O you are a ole duck!” And Mother Born-drunk stumbled toward Uncle Isaac with affectionately extended arms.

The crowd shrieked with joy, but Uncle Isaac turned and ran, one hand clapped to the crown of his very tall hat. He would wait for no bridge now, but get away as best he could. The boys yelled and whistled, and kept up at an easy trot with the quick scuttle of his short legs; behind them came Mother Born-drunk, tripping and floundering, spurred to infuriate chase by sight and sound of her unchanging enemies, the boys, and growing at every step more desirous of clawing at one of them than of catching Uncle Isaac.

As for him, he dropped his hat once, and nearly fell on it, in looking behind. So he thrust it under his arm as he scurried past the bend in the road; and there despair seized him, for now the other bridge was open too. Which escape might he make first? At the end from which he had turned back, a great liner was being towed through at a snail’s pace, funnels and masts scarce seeming to move across the street. But at this end a small coaster went out briskly, and her mizzen was more than half over now. The woman was less than twenty yards off, but though she still staggered nearer, she was engaged with boys. Uncle Isaac put panic aside, and resolved on dignity. He took his hat from under his arm, and began to brush it on his sleeve.

Mother Born-drunk was in the hands of her enemies, though there were fewer than usual. She swore and swiped at them, and they flung and yelled and danced. But they drew nearer Uncle Isaac, for it was a new variation in the sport to involve an old gentleman with his Sunday clothes on. Then shouted the woman breathlessly: “P’lice! p’lice! Mish’ Mundy, I’ll give y’ in charge for annoyin’ me. ’J’ear!” She came very near and made a catch at him, which he dodged without regard to dignity. “Mish’ Mundy! Stand a drop—just a little drop for ole times! If ye don’t stand a drop I’ll give y’ in charge!”

The coaster was through, and soon the bridge would shut. Uncle Isaac moved up toward the chain amid shouts and jibes. “Y’ought to be ashamed o’ yerself,” bawled the woman, “a ole man like you, annoyin’ a lady!”

But the men were at the winch, and the bridge swung. First of all the impatient passengers, Uncle Isaac sprang on the moving iron and got across at peril of life and limb ere the sections were still. He heard a louder shout of laughter from behind, where Mother Born-drunk, forgetting the chain as she made for the bridge, had sprawled over it where it hung low in the middle; and he quickened his pace.

Now it chanced that Johnny May had been taken that week to his first out-door job, on a large steamer; and, full of the wonders of the ship, he had made interest with the “shippy” (who was officially called the shipkeeper) to bring Bessy on board on Saturday afternoon. The visit was a pure delight for both, with more than a spice of danger for Bessy in climbing gangways, companions, and greasy engine-room steps; indeed, the “shippy” carried her down the lower flights of these last. Johnny explained the prodigious engines with all the extreme technicality of a new hand, and with much pride pointed out the part whereon he (with the help of three or four journeymen) had been at work. Bessy stared and marvelled, and her admiration for her brother waxed into reverence. For was he not an engineer, master of these massy, shining immensities, so amazingly greater than any engines she had dreamed of, so awful in their monstrous stillness? Bessy peeped along the tunnel of the great shaft, and then, a minute after, up into the towering complexities above, and she was almost afraid—would have been afraid to stay there alone.

They walked home gay and talkative, and Bessy’s face had a light and a colour that it had lacked since Johnny and gran’dad had seen it together. For she had seen great things, and had walked in passenger saloons more wonderful than all her palaces of romance. It struck Johnny, for the first time in his life, that Bessy was rather pretty; and as to her lameness though some would call it a blemish (as it certainly was a misfortune), yet she carried it trimly, and he almost thought it suited her.

And so they went till at a corner a hurried little man with a moon-face ran into them, hat first,—for he was brushing it again.

Now both Johnny and Bessy wore their best clothes, and both looked happy and well, so at a glance Uncle Isaac guessed that things had gone aright at Harbour Lane after all. Just as distress troubled and repelled him, so good fortune pleased his amiable genius and attracted his regards. So though he was still a little flushed and uneasy, he was glad of the encounter. He had been unwell, it seemed, and—and busy, and all that. But how was trade at the shop?

Johnny and Bessy told the tale of the new ship-yard gate, and of the cold bacon and the pickles and the new prosperity. Uncle Isaac was greatly pleased. He was sorry, very sorry, he said, that he had not been able to call lately, but he would delay no longer—he would be round that very evening. And, indeed, he came, and immensely approved of the bacon. And he came again, and approved immensely of the cheese and the pickles and whatever else there was for supper, and again after that, and usually carried something home for trial in the calmer mood of the morning. And thus family ties were made whole, and avuncular love continued.

“Jest to think,” Uncle Isaac would say with a wave of his fork, “what a quantity o’ blessin’s you owe to my advice, Nan! What was my words o’ counsel to you prefarrotory? ‘Enterprise,’ sez I. ‘Enterprise is what you want,’ I sez; there’s alwis money in Enterprise! An’ what’s the result? Enterprise, representin’ biled ’ock o’ bacon, is done the trick wonderful. But, in regards to enterprise, why not call it ’am?”