I'll l'arn 'ee to gee honest folk names afore I've done with 'ee." "My luck as usual," thinks Tom; "what a fool I was to give him a black! If I'd called him 'keeper,' now, I might get off.

The return match is all his way." The keeper quietly proceeded to take out his pipe, fill, and light it, keeping an eye on Tom, who now sat disconsolately across the branch, looking at keeper--a pitiful sight for men and fishes.

The more he thought of it the less he liked it.

"It must be getting near second calling-over," thinks he.

Keeper smokes on stolidly.