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

infected with new ideas, refused to listen to such sophistry. He went shopping with Dorothy; and the Sunday after, when Mrs. Jobson went for an airing with him, she walked in boots with heels two inches high and toes that ended in a point. A waist that had disappeared some years before was recaptured and placed in durance vile; and a hat which called for a new style of hair-dressing completed the effect.

      “You look splendid, ma!” said Gladys, as she watched their departure. “Splendid!”

      “I don't feel splendid,” sighed Mrs. Jobson to her husband. “These 'ere boots feel red-'ot.”

      “Your usual size,” said Mr. Jobson, looking across the road.

      “And the clothes seem just a teeny-weeny bit tight, p'r'aps,” continued his wife.

      Mr. Jobson regarded her critically. “P'r'aps they might have been let out a quarter of an inch,” he: said, thoughtfully. “They're the best fit you've 'ad for a long time, mother. I only 'ope the gals'll 'ave such good figgers.”

      His wife smiled faintly, but, with little breath for conversation, walked on for some time in silence. A growing redness of face testified to her distress.

      “I—I feel awful,” she said at last, pressing her hand to her side. “Awful.”

      “You'll soon get used to it,” said Mr. Jobson, gently. “Look at me! I felt like you do at first, and now I wouldn't go back to old clothes—and comfort—for anything. You'll get to love them boots.

      “If I could only take 'em off I should love 'em better,” said his wife, panting; “and I can't breathe properly—I can't breathe.”

      “You look ripping, mother,” said her husband, simply.

      His wife essayed another smile, but failed. She set her lips together and plodded on, Mr. Jobson chatting cheerily and taking no notice of the fact that she kept lurching against him. Two miles from home she stopped and eyed him fixedly.

      “If I don't get these boots off, Alf, I shall be a 'elpless cripple for the rest of my days,” she murmured. “My ankle's gone over three times.”

      “But you can't take 'em off here,” said Mr. Jobson, hastily. “Think 'ow it would look.”

      “I must 'ave a cab or something,” said his wife, hysterically. “If I don't get 'em off soon I shall scream.”

      She leaned against the iron palings of a house for support, while Mr. Jobson, standing on the kerb, looked up and down the road for a cab. A four-wheeler appeared just in time to prevent the scandal—of Mrs. Jobson removing her boots in the street.

      “Thank goodness,” she gasped, as she climbed in. “Never mind about untying 'em, Alf; cut the laces and get 'em off quick.”

      They drove home with the boots standing side by side on the seat in front of them. Mr. Jobson got out first and knocked at the door, and as soon as it opened Mrs. Jobson pattered across the intervening space with the boots dangling from her hand. She had nearly reached the door when Mr. Foley, who had a diabolical habit of always being on hand when he was least wanted, appeared suddenly from the offside of the cab.

      “Been paddlin'?” he inquired.

      Mrs. Jobson, safe in her doorway, drew herself up and, holding the boots behind her, surveyed him with a stare of high-bred disdain.

      “Been paddlin'?” he inquired

      “I see you going down the road in 'em,” said the unabashed Mr. Foley, “and I says to myself, I says, 'Pride'll bear a pinch, but she's going too far. If she thinks that she can squeedge those little tootsywootsies of 'ers into them boo—'”

      The door slammed violently and left him exchanging grins with Mr. Jobson.

      “How's the 'at?” he inquired.

      Mr. Jobson winked. “Bet you a level 'arf-dollar I ain't wearing it next Sunday,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.

      Mr. Foley edged away.

      “Not good enough,” he said, shaking his head. “I've had a good many bets with you first and last, Alf, but I can't remember as I ever won one yet. So long.”

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      R. Joseph Gibbs finished his half-pint in the private bar of the Red Lion with the slowness of a man unable to see where the next was coming from, and, placing the mug on the counter, filled his pipe from a small paper of tobacco and shook his head slowly at his companions.

      “First I've 'ad since ten o'clock this morning,” he said, in a hard voice.

      “Cheer up,” said Mr. George Brown.

      “It can't go on for ever,” said Bob Kidd, encouragingly.

      “All I ask for—is work,” said Mr. Gibbs, impressively. “Not slavery, mind yer, but work.”

      “It's rather difficult to distinguish,” said Mr. Brown.

      “'Specially for some people,” added Mr. Kidd.

      “Go on,” said Mr. Gibbs, gloomily. “Go on. Stand a man 'arf a pint, and then go and hurt 'is feelings. Twice yesterday I wondered to myself what it would feel like to make a hole in the water.”

      “Lots o' chaps do do it,” said Mr. Brown, musingly.

      “And leave their wives and families to starve,” said Mr. Gibbs, icily.

      “Very often the wife is better off,” said his friend. “It's one mouth less for her to feed. Besides, she gen'rally gets something. When pore old Bill went they 'ad a Friendly Lead at the 'King's Head' and got his missis pretty nearly seventeen pounds.”

      “And I believe we'd get more than that for your old woman,” said Mr. Kidd. “There's no kids, and she could keep 'erself easy. Not that I want to encourage you to make away with yourself.”

      Mr. Gibbs scowled and, tilting his mug, peered gloomily into the interior.

      “Joe won't make no 'ole in the water,” said Mr. Brown, wagging his head. “If it was beer, now—”

      Mr. Gibbs turned and, drawing himself up to five feet three, surveyed the speaker with an offensive stare.

      “I don't see why he need make a 'ole in anything,” said Mr. Kidd, slowly. “It 'ud do just as well if we said he 'ad. Then we could pass the hat round and share it.”

      “Divide it into three halves and each 'ave one,” said Mr. Brown, nodding; “but 'ow is it to be done?”

      “'Ave some more beer and think it over,” said Mr. Kidd, pale with excitement. “Three pints, please.”

      He and Mr. Brown took up their pints, and nodded at each other. Mr. Gibbs, toying idly with the handle of his, eyed them carefully. “Mind, I'm not promising anything,” he said, slowly. “Understand, I ain't a-committing of myself by drinking this 'ere pint.”

      “You leave it to me, Joe,” said Mr. Kidd.

      Mr. Gibbs left it to him after a discussion in which pints played a persuasive part; with the result that Mr. Brown, sitting in the same bar the next evening with two or three friends, was rudely disturbed by the cyclonic