my girl!" and "You'd
like to marry me in _that_, my boy--what? not half!"--or else "Eh,
now, if you'd seen me in _that_ you'd have fallen in love with me at
first sight, shouldn't you?"--with a probable answer "I should have
fallen over myself making haste to get away"--loud guffaws:--all
this was the regular Friday night's entertainment in Woodhouse.
James Houghton's shop was regarded as a weekly comic issue. His
pique costumes with glass buttons and sort of steel-trimming collars
and cuffs were immortal.

But why, once more, drag it out. Miss Pinnegar served in the shop on
Friday nights. She stood by her man. Sometimes when the shrieks grew
loudest she came to the shop door and looked with her pale grey eyes
at the ridiculous mob of lasses in tam-o-shanters and youths half
buried in caps. And she imposed a silence. They edged away.

Meanwhile Miss Pinnegar pursued the sober and even tenor of her own
way. Whilst James lashed out, to use the local phrase, in robes and
"suits," Miss Pinnegar steadily ground away, producing strong,
indestructible shirts and singlets for the colliers, sound,
serviceable aprons for the colliers' wives, good print dresses for
servants, and so on. She executed no flights of fancy. She had her
goods made to suit her people. And so, underneath the foam and froth
of James' creative adventure flowed a slow but steady stream of
output and income. The women of Woodhouse came at last to _depend_
on Miss Pinnegar. Growing lads in the pit reduce their garments to
shreds with amazing expedition. "I'll go to Miss Pinnegar for thy
shirts this time, my lad," said the harassed mothers, "and see if
_they'll_ stand thee." It was almost like a threat. But it served
Manchester House.

James bought very little stock in these days: just remnants and
pieces for his immortal robes. It was Miss Pinnegar who saw the
travellers and ordered the unions and calicoes and grey flannel.
James hovered round and said the last word, of course. But what was
his last word but an echo of Miss Pinnegar's penultimate! He was not
interested in unions and twills.

His own stock remained on hand. Time, like a slow whirlpool
churned it over into sight and out of sight, like a mass of dead
sea-weed in a backwash. There was a regular series of sales
fortnightly. The display of "creations" fell off. The new
entertainment was the Friday-night's sale. James would attack some
portion of his stock, make a wild jumble of it, spend a del