u like a
book a lot you care about overworkin' me as long as _your_ turn's
served throwin' away money like dirt in the street on a lot o' swindlin'
tailors an' me workin' and' slavin' 'ere to save a 'a'penny an' this
is my return for it any one 'ud think you could pick up money in the
'orse-road an' I b'lieve I'd be thought better of if I laid in bed
all day like some would that I do." So that Thomas Simmons avoided the
subject, nor even murmured when she resolved to cut his hair.

So his placid fortune endured for years. Then there came a golden summer
evening when Mrs. Simmons betook herself with a basket to do some small
shopping, and Simmons was left at home. He washed and put away the
tea-things, and then he fell to meditating on a new pair of trousers,
finished that day, and hanging behind the parlour door. There they
hung, in all their decent innocence of shape in the seat, and they were
shorter of leg, longer of waist, and wilder of pattern than he had ever
worn before. And as he looked on them the small devil of Original Sin
awoke and clamoured in his breast. He was ashamed of it, of course, for
well he knew the gratitude he owed his wife for those same trousers,
among other blessings. Still, there the small devil was, and the small
devil was fertile in base suggestions, and could not be kept from
hinting at the new crop of workshop gibes that would spring at Tommy's
first public appearance in such things.

"Pitch 'em in the dust-bin!" said the small devil at last. "It's all
they're fit for."

Simmons turned away in sheer horror of his wicked self, and for a moment
thought of washing the tea-things over again by way of discipline. Then
he made for the back room, but saw from the landing that the front door
was standing open, probably the fault of the child downstairs. Now
a front door standing open was a thing that Mrs. Simmons would _not_
abide: it looked low. So Simmons went down, that she might not be wroth
with him for the thing when she came back; and, as he shut the door, he
looked forth into the street.

A man was loitering on the pavement, and prying curiously about the
door. His face was tanned, his hands were deep in the pockets of
his unbraced blue trousers, and well back on his head he wore the
high-crowned peaked cap, topped with a knob of wool, which is affected
by Jack ashore about the docks. He lurched a step nearer to the door,
and "Mrs. Ford ain't in, is she?" he said.

Simmons stared at