"K-K-K-Kch! K-Kch!" he said, explosively. "Talk English, not Chinese," said Mr. Hatchard, sternly.
Mr. Sadler threw down the fire-shovel, and to Mr. Hatchard's great annoyance, clapped his open hand over his mouth and rocked with merriment.
"Sh—sh—she—she—" he spluttered.
"That'll do," said Mr. Hatchard, hastily, with a warning frown.
"Kow-towed to me," gurgled Mr. Sadler. "You ought to have seen it, Alf. I shall never get over it—never. It's—no—no good win-winking at me; I can't help myself."
He put his handkerchief to his eyes and leaned back exhausted. When he removed it, he found himself alone and everything still but for a murmur of voices overhead. Anon steps sounded on the stairs, and Mr. Hatchard, grave of face, entered the room.
"Outside!" he said, briefly.
"What!" said the astounded Mr. Sadler. "Why, it's eleven o'clock."
"I can't help it if it's twelve o'clock," was the reply. "You shouldn't play the fool and spoil things by laughing. Now, are you going, or have I got to put you out?"
He crossed the room and, putting his hand on the shoulder of the protesting Mr. Sadler, pushed him into the passage, and taking his coat from the peg held it up for him. Mr. Sadler, abandoning himself to his fate, got into it slowly and indulged in a few remarks on the subject of ingratitude.
"I can't help it," said his friend, in a low voice. "I've had to swear I've never seen you before."
"Does she believe you?" said the staring Mr. Sadler, shivering at the open door.
"No," said Mr. Hatchard, slowly, "but she pre-tends to."