was solls. . . .'

Gertie watched from the counter with a heightened colour. Lottie and
Victoria, side by side, had not moved. A curious chill had seized
Victoria, stiffening her wrists and knees. Stein was talking quicker and
quicker, with a voice that was not his.

'Ach, the damned scoundrel . . . the schweinehund . . . he knew the
business was going to the dogs, ach, schweinehund, schweinehund. . . .'
He paused. Less savage his thoughts turned to his losses. 'Two hundred
shares he sold me. . . . I paid a premium . . . they vas to go to four
. . . ach, ach, ach. . . . I'm in the cart.'

Gertie sniggered gently. The idiom had swamped the tragedy. Stein looked
round at the sound. His face had gone leaden; his greasy plastered hair
was all awry.

'Vat you laughing at, gn?' he asked savagely, suddenly resuming his
managerial tone.

'Take it we're bust, ain't we?' said Gertie, stepping forward jauntily.

Stein lifted, then dropped one hand.

'Yes,' he said, 'bust.'

'Thank you for a week's wages, Mr Stein,' said Gertie, 'and I'll push
off, if yer don't mind.'

Stein laughed harshly. With a theatrical movement he seized the cash
drawer by the handle, drew it out and flung it on the floor. It was
empty.

'Oh, that's 'ow it is,' said Gertie. 'You're a fine gentleman, I don't
think. Bloomin' lot of skunks. What price that, mate?' she screamed
addressing Bella, who still sat in her chair, her cheeks rising and
falling like the sides of a cuttlefish. ''Ere's a fine go. Fellers comes
along and tikes in poor girls like me and you and steals the bread outer
their mouths. I'll 'ave yer run in, yer bloody foreigner.' She waved her
fist in the man's face. 'For two pins,' she screamed, 'I'd smash yer
fice, I'd. . . .'

'Chuck it, Gertie,' said Lottie, suddenly taking her by the arm, 'don't
you see he's got nothing to do with it?'

'Oh, indeed, Miss Mealymouth,' sneered Gertie, 'what I want is my money
. . . .'

'Leave him alone, Gertie,' said Victoria, 'you can't kick a man when
he's down.'

Gertie looked as if she were about to explode. Then the problem became
too big for her. In her little Cockney brain the question was insolubly
revolving: 'Can you kick a man when he's down. . .? Can you kick. . .?'

Mr Stein passed his hand over his forehead. He was pulling himself
together.

'Close de door, Cora,' he commanded. 'Now then, the company's bankrupt,
there's nothing in the cashbox. You get the push. . . . I get th