Ship's Company, the Entire Collection. W. W. Jacobs

out together. And then I didn't like it.”

      “More shame for you,” said his wife. “I'm sure there's no other respectable tradesman goes about with a handkerchief knotted round his neck.”

      “P'r'aps their skins ain't as tender as what mine is,” urged Mr. Jobson; “and besides, fancy me in a top-'at! Why, I shall be the laughing-stock of the place.”

      “Nonsense!” said his wife. “It's only the lower classes what would laugh, and nobody minds what they think.”

      Mr. Jobson sighed. “Well, I shall 'ave to go back to bed again, then,” he said, ruefully. “So long, mother. Hope you have a pleasant time at the Palace.”

      He took a reef in the counterpane and with a fair amount of dignity, considering his appearance, stalked upstairs again and stood gloomily considering affairs in his bedroom. Ever since Gladys and Dorothy had been big enough to be objects of interest to the young men of the neighbourhood the clothes nuisance had been rampant. He peeped through the window-blind at the bright sunshine outside, and then looked back at the tumbled bed. A murmur of voices downstairs apprised him that the conspirators were awaiting the result.

      He dressed at last and stood like a lamb—a redfaced, bull-necked lamb—while Mrs. Jobson fastened his collar for him.

      “Bert wanted to get a taller one,” she remarked, “but I said this would do to begin with.”

      “Wanted it to come over my mouth, I s'pose,” said the unfortunate Mr. Jobson. “Well, 'ave it your own way. Don't mind about me. What with the trousers and the collar, I couldn't pick up a sovereign if I saw one in front of me.”

      “If you see one I'll pick it up for you,” said his wife, taking up the hat and moving towards the door. “Come along!”

      Mr. Jobson, with his arms standing out stiffly from his sides and his head painfully erect, followed her downstairs, and a sudden hush as he entered the kitchen testified to the effect produced by his appearance. It was followed by a hum of admiration that sent the blood flying to his head.

      “Why he couldn't have done it before I don't know,” said the dutiful Gladys. “Why, there ain't a man in the street looks a quarter as smart.”

      “Fits him like a glove!” said Dorothy, walking round him.

      “Just the right length,” said Bert, scrutinizing the coat.

      “And he stands as straight as a soldier,” said Gladys, clasping her hands gleefully.

      “Collar,” said Mr. Jobson, briefly. “Can I 'ave it took off while I eat my bloater, mother?”

      “Don't be silly, Alf,” said his wife. “Gladys, pour your father out a nice, strong, Pot cup o' tea, and don't forget that the train starts at ha' past ten.”

      “It'll start all right when it sees me,” observed Mr. Jobson, squinting down at his trousers.

      Mother and children, delighted with the success of their scheme, laughed applause, and Mr. Jobson somewhat gratified at the success of his retort, sat down and attacked his breakfast. A short clay pipe, smoked as a digestive, was impounded by the watchful Mrs. Jobson the moment he had finished it.

      “He'd smoke it along the street if I didn't,” she declared.

      “And why not?” demanded her husband—“always do.”

      “Not in a top-'at,” said Mrs. Jobson, shaking her head at him.

      “Or a tail-coat,” said Dorothy.

      “One would spoil the other,” said Gladys.

      “I wish 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 article of attire contributed its share. His uneasiness was so manifest that Mrs. Jobson, after a little womanly sympathy, suggested that, besides Sundays, it might be as well to wear them occasionally of an evening in order to get used to them.

      “What, 'ave I got to wear them every Sunday?” demanded the unfortunate, blankly; “why, I thought they was only for Bank Holidays.”

      Mrs. Jobson told him not to be silly.

      “Straight, I did,” said her husband, earnestly. “You've no idea 'ow I'm suffering; I've got a headache, I'm arf choked, and there's a feeling about my waist as though I'm being cuddled by somebody I don't like.”

      Mrs. Jobson said it would soon wear off and, seated in the train that bore them to the Crystal Palace, put the hat on the rack. Her husband's attempt to leave it in the train was easily frustrated and his explanation that he had forgotten all about it received in silence. It was evident that he would require watching, and under the clear gaze of his children he seldom had a button undone for more than three minutes at a time.

      The day was hot and he perspired profusely. His collar lost its starch—a thing to be grateful for—and for the greater part of the day he wore his tie under the left ear. By the time they had arrived home again he was in a state of open mutiny.

      “Never again,” he said, loudly, as he tore the collar off and hung his coat on a chair.

      There was a chorus of lamentation; but he remained firm. Dorothy began to sniff ominously,