He was always best in the Foundry, but better, perhaps, he died.

I went through his private papers; the notes was plainer than print;

And I'm no fool to finish if a man'll give me a

hint.

(I remember his widow was angry.) So I saw what the drawings meant,

And I started the six-inch rollers, and it paid me sixty per cent.

Sixty per cent with failures, and more than twice we could do,

And a quarter-million to credit, and I saved it all

for you.

I thought it doesn't matter-you seemed to fa

vour your ma,

But you're nearer forty than thirty, and I know the

kind you are.

Harrer an' Trinity College! I ought to ha' sent you to sea

But I stood you an education, an' what have you done for me?

The things I knew was proper you wouldn't thank me to give,

And the things I knew was rotten you said was the way to live;

For you muddled with books and pictures, an' china an' etchin's an' fans,

And your rooms at college was beastly-more like a whore's than a man's

Till you married that thin-flanked woman, as white and as stale as a bone,

And she gave you your social nonsense; but where's that kid o' your own?

I've seen your carriages blocking the half of the Cromwell Road,

But never the doctor's brougham to help the missus unload.

(So there isn't even a grandchild, an' the Gloster family's done.)

Not like your mother, she isn't. She carried her freight each run.

But they died, the pore little beggars! At sea she had 'em-they died.

Only you, an' you stood it; you haven't stood much beside

Weak, a liar, and idle, and mean as a collier's

whelp

Nosing for scraps in the galley. No help my son was no help!

So he gets three 'undred thousand, in trust and the interest paid.

I wouldn't give it you, Dickie-you see, I made it

in trade.

You're saved from soiling your fingers, and if you have no child,

It all comes back to the business. Gad, won't your wife be wild!

Calls and calls in her carriage, her 'andkerchief up to 'er eye:

"Daddy! dear daddy's dyin'!" and doing her best to cry.

Grateful? Oh, yes, I'm grateful, but keep 'er away from here.

Your mother 'ud never ha' stood 'er, and, anyhow, women are queer.

There's women will say I've married a second time. Not quite!

But give pore Aggie a hundred, and tell her your lawyers'll fight.

She was the best o' the boiling-you'll meet her before it ends;

I'm in for a row with the mother-I'll leave you settle my friends:

For a man he must go with a woman, which women don't understand

Or the sort that say they can see it they aren't the marrying brand.

But I wanted to speak o' your mother that's Lady Gloster still.

I'm going to up and see her, without it's hurting the will.

Here! Take your hand off the bell-pull. Five thousand's waiting for you,

If you'll only listen a minute, and do as I bid you do.

They'll try to prove me a loony, and, if you bungle, they can;

And I've only you to trust to! (O God, why ain't he a man ?)

There's some waste money on marbles, the same as McCullough tried

Marbles and mausoleums-but I call that sinful

pride.

There's some ship bodies for burial-we've carried 'em, soldered and packed;

Down in their wills they wrote it, and nobody called them cracked.

But me I've too much money, and people might. All fault: my

It come o' hoping for grandsons and buying that

Wokin' vault.

I'm sick o' the 'ole dam' business; I'm going back

where I came.

Dick, you're the son o' my body, and you'll take charge o' the same!

I'm going to lie by your mother, ten thousand mile

away,

And they'll want to send me to Woking; and that's where you'll earn your pay.

I've thought it out on the quiet, the same as it ought to be done

Quiet, and decent, and proper-an' here's your orders, my son.

You know the Line? You don't, though. You write to the Board, and tell

Your father's death has upset you an' you're goin' to cruise for a spell,

An' you'd like the Mary Gloster-I've held her ready for this

They'll put her in working order an' you'll take her out as she is.

Yes, it was money idle when I patched her and put her aside

(Thank God, I can pay for my fancies!)—the boat where your mother died,

By the Little Paternosters, as you come to the Union Bank,

We dropped her I think I told you-and I pricked it off where she sank.