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“Poor old Sam’s dying,” ses Peter.

“I know,” ses Ginger, laying down and cuddling into the piller agin. “He told me just now. I’ve bid ‘im good-by. ”

Peter Russet asked ‘im where his ‘art was, but Ginger was asleep agin. Then Peter sat up in bed and tried to comfort Sam, and listened while ‘e told ‘im wot it felt like to die. How ‘e was ‘ot and cold all over, burning and shivering, with pains in his inside that he couldn’t describe if ‘e tried.

“It’ll soon be over, Sam,” ses Peter, kindly, “and all your troubles will be at an end. While me and Ginger are knocking about at sea trying to earn a crust o’ bread to keep ourselves alive, you’ll be quiet and at peace. ”

Sam groaned. “I don’t like being too quiet,” he ses. “I was always one for a bit o’ fun—innercent fun. ”

Peter coughed.

“You and Ginger ‘av been good pals,” ses Sam; “it’s hard to go and leave you. ”

“We’ve all got to go some time or other, Sam,” ses Peter, soothing-like. “It’s a wonder to me, with your habits, that you’ve lasted as long as you ‘ave. ”

“Myhabits?” ses Sam, sitting up all of a sudden. “Why, you monkey-faced son of a sea-cook, for two pins I’d chuck you out of the winder. ”

“Don’t talk like that on your death-bed,” ses Peter, very shocked.

Sam was going to answer ‘im sharp agin, but just then ‘e got a pain which made ‘im roll about on the bed and groan to such an extent that Ginger woke up agin and got out o’ bed.

“Pore old Sam!” he ses, walking across the room and looking at ‘im. “’Ave you got any pain anywhere?”

“Pain?” ses Sam. “Pain? I’m a mask o’ pains all over. ”

Ginger and Peter looked at ‘im and shook their ‘eds, and then they went a little way off and talked about ‘im in whispers.

“He looks ‘arf dead now,” ses Peter, coming back and staring at ‘im. “Let’s take ‘is clothes off, Ginger; it’s more decent to die with ’em off. ”

“I think I’ll ‘ave a doctor,” ses Sam, in a faint voice.

“You’re past doctors, Sam,” ses Ginger, in a kind voice.

“Better ‘ave your last moments in peace,” ses Peter, “and keep your money in your trouser-pockets. ”

“You go and fetch a doctor, you murderers,” ses Sam, groaning, as Peter started to undress ‘im. “Go on, else I’ll haunt you with my ghost. ”

Ginger tried to talk to ‘im about the sin o’ wasting money, but it was all no good, and arter telling Peter wot to do in case Sam died afore he come back, he went off. He was gone about ‘arf an hour, and then he come back with a sandy-‘aired young man with red eyelids and a black bag.

“Am I dying, sir?” ses Sam, arter the doctor ‘ad listened to his lungs and his ‘art and prodded ‘im all over.

“We’re all dying,” ses the doctor, “only some of us’ll go sooner than others. ”

“Will he last the day, sir?” ses Ginger.

The doctor looked at Sam agin, and Sam held ‘is breath while ‘e waited for him to answer. “Yes,” ses the doctor at last, “if he does just wot I tell him and takes the medicine I send ‘im. ”

He wasn’t in the room ‘arf an hour altogether, and he charged pore Sam a shilling; but wot ‘urt Sam even more than that was to hear ‘im go off downstairs whistling as cheerful as if there wasn’t a dying man within a ‘undred miles.

Peter and Ginger Dick took turns to be with Sam that morning, but in the arternoon the landlady’s mother, an old lady who was almost as fat as Sam ‘imself, came up to look arter ‘im a bit. She sat on a chair by the side of ‘is bed and tried to amuse ‘im by telling ‘im of all the death- beds she’d been at, and partikler of one man, the living image of Sam, who passed away in his sleep. It was past ten o’clock when Peter and Ginger came ‘ome, but they found pore Sam still awake and sitting up in bed holding ‘is eyes open with his fingers.