In the course of a few years Mrs. Worse quite lost her manners. People
in polite society had never forgiven her her drive, but still less were
they willing to look over the fact that she, a lady, had not more
self-respect than to sink down into the position of a common shop-woman.
The lower orders, on the other hand, had quite a fellow-feeling for Mrs.
Worse, and the dingy little shop was just to their taste; and thus,
contrary to all expectation, Mrs. Worse's business, common little retail
affair as it was, went on capitally.

The trustworthy Mr, Samuelsen did the work of three. He was a little
grey shrivelled man, with a face like a dried fig. He might be forty, or
he might be sixty, it was not easy to tell. In his monotonous life there
had only been one single event which he particularly remembered, and
that was the afternoon when he had taken his books and calculations in
to Mrs. Worse, and since that time he had, with the greatest honesty,
helped her to overcome her many difficulties. Mr. Samuelsen had also his
own private enemies to contend against, and these consisted of nearly
all the school children in the town. It had always been, and was still,
a favourite amusement for the children to "Sing for Pitter Nilken." The
game was carried on in the following manner. Boys and girls all
assembled, the more the merrier, generally in the dusk of the evening,
and sneaked quietly down into the alley at the back of the Worses'
house, and when they got under Samuelsen's shop-window, they began
singing, to a well-known air--

"Little Pitter Nilken,
Sitting on his chair!
He's always growing smaller,
The longer he sits there."

This couplet was repeated again and again, each time in a louder tone,
until the tormented man seized his iron ruler and sprang over the
counter. Then off flew the crowd, screaming and shouting along the
narrow lane, for there was an old tradition that the iron ruler had a
rusty stain of blood on it. Samuelsen would then retire quietly to his
desk. In the course of years the episode had been of constant
occurrence, and he well knew that the only way of getting a little peace
was to make this sally with the ruler.

No one could blame Mrs. Worse for making an idol of her son; he was all
she had to care for. Although Jacob was a good son, and grew up strong
and healthy, he had cost his mother many tears when he came home from
school bruised and untidy after a fight. The boy had a