ays from church 'cos their duds ain't fit, and I stays 'ome 'cos I've
got to work like a slave to pay you for seven dollars' worth of spoiled
vegetables and mouldy groceries. That's the reason I works on Sundays,
if you've got to know."

"Work on Sundays!" gasped the grocer. "Work! work?" and he stared at the
reclining figure of Mr. Cadge in unfeigned astonishment.

"Yes, work. This 'ere construction company wot's doing the job of
grading this vacant block, employs me to sort of look after things,
their shovels, scoops, and the like. A kind of private police officer,
I am," he concluded, drawing himself up a little and puffing into the
air.

"And when are you on duty?" asked Mr. Snavely.

"Nights," replied Cadge, "nights and Sundays, when the tools ain't in
use."

"I hope they pay you well for it?"

"Ah, but they don't. 'Ow much do you think I get for stayin' awake
nights and doin' without my church on Sunday? Three measly dollars a
week and the rent of this 'ere 'ouse, if you can call it a 'ouse."

It would have been difficult to determine just what name to give the
residence of Mr. Thomas Cadge. It would hardly be called a cottage,
though not because it was more spacious than the name implied; nor was
it a piano-box, in spite of the fact that a piano would have fitted
snugly within its walls, for no manufacturer would have trusted a
valuable instrument in so flimsy a shell. It was not a real-estate
office, as the sign which decorated its entire front proclaimed it to
be, for through a jagged hole in the window facing the street projected
a rusty iron stovepipe, which was wired to the facade of the building,
and emitted the sooty smoke that had almost totally obscured and
canceled the legend, "Suburban Star Realty Syndicate."

Moreover, a litter of tin cans, impartially distributed at the front and
back doors, indicated the domestic use to which this temporary office
had been put. A smell of steaming suds that pervaded the place likewise
indicated the manner in which Mrs. Cadge eked out her lord's stipend.
This impression was confirmed by the chorus of irrepressible little
Cadges proclaiming:

"Mother tikes in washin',
H'and so does sister h'Ann,
H'everybody works at our 'ouse,
But my old----"

--a burst of melody which was abruptly checked with a tomato can hurled
like a hand-grenade by their unmusical father.

"Look here, Cadge," said Mr. Snavely, with the air of proprietorship one
ado