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The fisherwoman was occupied in punching the child’s ribs and standing it on its head. It was spouting water like the fountain of Trevi, and gurgling out lusty screams that proved the efficacy of the treatment.

“Mrs. Hawkins,” said Waddy, becoming conscious that he had observed her name over her door in his momentary coup d’œil before he sprang into the water; “Mrs. Hawkins, I am wet; you will have to dry me.”

“Why, so you are,” said the lady, “wet as a swab. Sammy, you jest git up an’ go in the shop, an’ don’t you be fallin’ overboard ag’in an’ botherin’ the gentleman.”

She accompanied this advice with a box on the ear of the sobbing Sammy, which started Trevi again.

Without much ceremony or disappearance into a tiring-room, Mr. Waddy doffed his wet clothes and donned the toggery of the widow’s eldest son. His cigar-case, well filled with cheroots, had fortunately escaped with his coat. He lighted his first, and sat waiting patiently while Mrs. Hawkins displayed his wet raiment before her cooking stove and turned the articles judiciously to toast on either side. Let us observe him as he sits.