go, when Ada came to the door and saw him under the gas lamp.
He crossed the street, trying to show by his walk that his presence was
a mere accident.

"Cum in," cried Ada. "Mum won't eat yer."

Mrs Yabsley, who was ironing among a pile of shirts and collars, looked
up, with the iron in her hand.

"W'y, Joe, ye're quite a stranger!" she cried. "Sit down an' make
yerself at 'ome."

"'Ow do, missus?" said Jonah, looking round nervously for the child,
but it was not visible.

"I knowed yer wouldn't let them take the old woman's fowls," she
continued. "'Ere, Ada, go an' git a jug o' beer."

The room, which served for a laundry, was dimly lit with a candle. The
pile of white linen brought into relief the dirt and poverty of the
interior. The walls were stained with grease and patches of dirt,
added slowly through the years as a face gathers wrinkles. But Jonah
saw nothing of this. He was used to dirt.

He sat down, and, with a sudden attack of politeness, decided to take
off his hat, but, uncertain of his footing, pushed it on the back of
his head as a compromise. He lit a cigarette, and felt more at ease.

A faint odour of scorching reached his nostrils as Mrs Yabsley passed
the hot iron over the white fronts. The small black iron ran swiftly
over the clean surface, leaving a smooth, shining track behind it. And
he watched, with an idler's pleasure, the swift, mechanical movements.

When the beer came, Jonah gallantly offered it to Mrs Yabsley, whose
face was hot and red.

"Just leave a drop in the jug, an' I'll be thankful for it when I'm
done," she replied, wiping her forehead on her sleeve. Jonah had risen
in her esteem.

After some awkward attempts at conversation, Jonah relapsed into
silence. He was glad that he had brought his mouth-organ, won in a
shilling raffle. He would give them a tune later on.

When she had finished the last shirt, Mrs Yabsley looked at the clock
with an exclamation. It was nearly ten. She had to deliver the
shirts, and then buy the week's supplies. For she did her shopping at
the last minute, in a panic. It had been her mother's way--to dash
into the butcher's as he swept the last bones together, to hammer at
the grocer's door as he turned out the lights. And she always forgot
something which she got on Sunday morning from the little shop at the
corner.

As she was tying the shirts into bundles, she heard the tinkle of a
bell in the street, and a hoarse voice t