treet, and Pinkey lost a day at the factory to move
the furniture.

Pinkey's father was a silent, characterless man, taking the lead from
his wife with admirable docility, and asking nothing from fortune but
regular work and time to read the newspaper. He had worked for the
same firm since he was a boy, disliking change; but since his second
marriage he had been dragged from one house to another. Sometimes he
went home to the wrong place, forgetting that they had moved. Every
week he planned another short cut to Grimshaw's works, which landed him
there half an hour late.

Her mother had died of consumption when Pinkey was eleven, and two
years later her father had married his housekeeper. She proved to be a
shiftless slattern, never dressed, never tidy, and selfish to the core
under the cloak of a good-natured smile. She was always resting from
the fatigue of imaginary labours, and her house was a pigsty. Nothing
was in its place, and nothing could be found when it was wanted. This,
she always explained with a placid smile, was owing to the fact that
they were busy looking for a house where they could settle down.

The burden of moving fell on Pinkey, for her father had never lost a
day at Grimshaw's in his life; and after Mrs Partridge had hindered for
half an hour by getting in the way and mislaying everything, Pinkey
usually begged her in desperation to go and wait for the furniture in
the new house.

Meanwhile, lower down the street, Chook was slowly working his way from
house to house, hawking a load of vegetables. In the distance he
remarked the load of furniture, and resolved to call before a rival
could step in and get their custom. As he praised the quality of the
peas to a customer, he found time to observe that the unloading went on
very slowly. The vanman stood on the cart and slid the articles on to
the shoulders of a girl, who staggered across the pavement under a load
twice her size. It looked like an ant carrying a beetle. Five minutes
later Chook stood at the door and rapped with his knuckles.

"Any vegetables to-day, lydy?" he inquired, in his nasal, professional
sing-song.

The answer to his question was Pinkey, dishevelled, sweating in beads,
covered with dust, her sleeves tucked up to the elbows, showing two
arms as thick as pipe-stems. She flushed pink under the sweat and
grime, feeling for her apron to wipe her face. They had not seen each
other since the fight, for in a sudden