cried the auctioneer, grinning.

"That'll leave you nothing to pay your tram fare home." But he went on:
"I'm offered a pound for this solid ash bedroom suite that cost thirty
guineas in London."

The bids crawled slowly up to six pounds.

"It's against you, mother," cried the auctioneer; "don't let a few
shillings stand in the way of your getting married. I knew the men
couldn't leave you alone with that face. Thank you, six-five."

The old hag showed her toothless gums in a hideous smile, the woman
that was left in the dried shell still tickled at the reference to
marriage. But her look changed to one of intense pain as Pinkey,
trembling with excitement, nudged her violently in the ribs as a signal
to keep on bidding. However, there was no real opposition, and the
bidding stopped suddenly at seven pounds, forced up to that price by a
friend of Mother Jenkins's to increase her commission.

In the kitchen the auctioneer lost his temper, and knocked down to
Mother Jenkins enough pots and pans to last Pinkey a lifetime for ten
shillings before the others could get in a bid. Chook, who had
borrowed Jack Ryan's cart for the day, drove off with his load in
triumph, while Pinkey went with Mother Jenkins to her shop in Bathurst
Street to sort out her curtains, bed-linen, and crockery from that
extraordinary collection. Twenty pounds would pay for the lot, and
leave a few shillings over.

One Saturday morning, two years ago, Pinkey had set out for the factory
as usual, and had come home to dinner with her wages in her
handkerchief and a wedding ring on her finger. Mrs Partridge gave up
novelettes for a week when she learned that her stepdaughter had
married Chook that morning at the registry office. Partridge had taken
the news with a look that had frightened the women; the only sign of
emotion that he had given was to turn his back without a word on his
favourite daughter. Since then they had lived with Chook's mother, as
he had no money to furnish; but last month Chook had joined a syndicate
of three to buy a five-shilling sweep ticket, which, to their
amazement, drew a hundred-pound prize. With Chook's share they had
decided to take Jack Ryan's shop in Pitt Street just round the corner
from Cardigan Street. It was a cottage that had been turned into a
shop by adding a false front to it. The rent, fifteen shillings a
week, frightened Chook, but he reserved ten pounds to stock it with
vegetables, and buy the