on the chance of getting a final taste at the "Woolpack."

Mrs Yabsley stood on the veranda and watched his departing figure,
aching in every joint from the strain of the eventful day. Cardigan
Street was silent and deserted. The air was still hot and breathless,
but little gusts of wind began to rise, the first signs of a coming
"buster". Then she turned to Jonah and Ada, who had followed her on to
the veranda, and summed up the day's events.

"All's well that ends well, as the man said when he plaited the horse's
tail, but this is a new way of gittin' married on the sly, with all the
street to keep the secret. There's no mistake, secrets are dead funny.
Spend yer last penny to 'elp yer friend out of a 'ole, an' it niver
gits about, but pawn yer last shirt, an' nex' day all the bloomin'
street wants to know if yer don't feel the cold."

CHAPTER 8

JONAH STARTS ON HIS OWN

It was Monday morning. Hans Paasch was at his bench cleaning up the
dirt and litter of last week, setting the tools in order at one end of
the bench, while he swept it clear of the scraps of leather that had
gathered through the week. Then he set the heavy iron lasts on their
shelves, where they looked like a row of amputated feet. The shining
knives and irons lay in order, ready to hand. A light cloud of dust
from the broom made him sneeze, and he strewed another handful of wet
tea-leaves on the floor. These he saved carefully from day to day to
lay the dust before sweeping. When the bench and the shop were swept
clean, he looked round with mild satisfaction.

Once a week, in this manner, he gratified his passion for order and
neatness; but when work began, everything fell into disorder, and he
wasted hours peering over the bench with his short sight for tools that
lay under his nose, buried in a heap of litter.

The peculiar musty odour of leather hung about the shop. A few pairs
of boots that had been mended stood in a row, the shining black rim of
the new soles contrasting with the worn, dingy uppers--the patched and
mended shoes of the poor, who must wear them while upper and sole hang
together. They betrayed the age and sex of the wearer as clearly as a
photograph. The shoddy slipper, with the high, French heels, of the
smart shop-girl; the heavy bluchers, studded with nails, of the
labourer; the light tan boots, with elegant, pointed toes, of the clerk
or counter-jumper; the shoes of a small child, with a thin rim of