ish something would spoil the hat," said Mr. Jobson, wistfully.
"It's no good; I must smoke, mother."

Mrs. Jobson smiled, and, going to the cupboard, produced, with a smile of
triumph, an envelope containing seven dangerous-looking cigars. Mr.
Jobson whistled, and taking one up examined it carefully.

"What do they call 'em, mother?" he inquired. "The 'Cut and Try Again
Smokes'?"

Mrs. Jobson smiled vaguely. "Me and the girls are going upstairs to get
ready now," she said. "Keep your eye on him, Bert!"

Father and son grinned at each other, and, to pass the time, took a cigar
apiece. They had just finished them when a swish and rustle of skirts
sounded from the stairs, and Mrs. Jobson and the girls, beautifully
attired, entered the room and stood buttoning their gloves. A strong
smell of scent fought with the aroma of the cigars.

"You get round me like, so as to hide me a bit," entreated Mr. Jobson, as
they quitted the house. "I don't mind so much when we get out of our
street."

Mrs. Jobson laughed his fears to scorn.

"Well, cross the road, then," said Mr. Jobson, urgently. "There's Bill
Foley standing at his door."

His wife sniffed. "Let him stand," she said, haughtily.

Mr. Foley failed to avail himself of the permission. He regarded Mr.
Jobson with dilated eyeballs, and, as the party approached, sank slowly
into a sitting position on his doorstep, and as the door opened behind
him rolled slowly over onto his back and presented an enormous pair of
hobnailed soles to the gaze of an interested world.

"I told you 'ow it would be," said the blushing Mr. Jobson. "You know
what Bill's like as well as I do."

His wife tossed her head and they all quickened their pace. The voice of
the ingenious Mr. Foley calling piteously for his mother pursued them to
the end of the road.

"I knew what it 'ud be," said Mr. Jobson, wiping his hot face. "Bill
will never let me 'ear the end of this."

"Nonsense!" said his wife, bridling. "Do you mean to tell me you've got
to ask Bill Foley 'ow you're to dress? He'll soon get tired of it; and,
besides, it's just as well to let him see who you are. There's not many
tradesmen as would lower themselves by mixing with a plasterer."

Mr. Jobson scratched his ear, but wisely refrained from speech. Once
clear of his own district mental agitation subsided, but bodily
discomfort increased at every step. The hat and the collar bothered him
most, but every articl