f, he would have seen this, and not kept the man on a
week. The former bailiff had died suddenly. He, the bailiff, had given
some little power to Roy during his lifetime; had taken him on as a sort
of inferior helper; and Mr. Verner, put to shifts by the bailiffs death,
had allowed Roy so to continue. Bit by bit, step by step, gradually,
covertly, the man made good his footing: no other was put over his head,
and in time he came to be called Roy the bailiff, without having ever
been formally appointed as bailiff. He drew his two pounds per week--his
stipulated wages--and he made, it is hard to say what, besides. Avarice
and tyranny were the predominant passions of Roy's mind; bad qualities,
and likely to bring forth bad fruits when joined to petty power.

About three years previous to Mr. Verner's death, a stranger had
appeared in Clay Lane, and set up a shop there. Nearly every conceivable
thing in the shape of eatables was sold in it; that is, such eatables as
are in request among the poor. Bread, flour, meat, potatoes, butter,
tea, sugar, red herrings, and the like. Soap and candles were also sold;
and afterwards the man added green vegetables and coals, the latter
doled out by the measure, so much a "kipe." The man's name was Peckaby;
he and his wife were without family, and they managed the shop between
them. A tall, strong, brawny man was he; his wife was a remarkably tall
woman, fond of gossip and of smart caps. She would go gadding out for
hours at a stretch, leaving him to get through all the work at home, the
preparing meals, the serving customers.

Folks fly to new things; to do so is a propensity inherent in human
nature; and Mr. Peckaby's shop flourished. Not that he was much honoured
with the complimentary "Mr."; his customers brought it out
short--"Peckaby's shop." Much intimacy had appeared to exist from the
first between him and Roy, so that it was surmised they had been
previously acquainted. The prices were low, the shop was close at hand,
and Clay Lane flocked to it.

New things, however, like new faces, are apt to turn out no better than
the old; sometimes not as good. And thus it proved with Peckaby's shop.
From rather underselling the shops of the village, Peckaby's shop grew
to increase its charges until they were higher than those of anybody
else; the wares also deteriorated in value. Clay Lane awoke to this by
degrees, and would have taken its custom away; but that was more easily
contemplate