"Thank goodness," she gasped, as she climbed in. "Never mind about
untying 'em, Alf; cut the laces and get 'em off quick."

They drove home with the boots standing side by side on the seat in front
of them. Mr. Jobson got out first and knocked at the door, and as soon
as it opened Mrs. Jobson pattered across the intervening space with the
boots dangling from her hand. She had nearly reached the door when Mr.
Foley, who had a diabolical habit of always being on hand when he was
least wanted, appeared suddenly from the offside of the cab.

"Been paddlin'?" he inquired.

Mrs. Jobson, safe in her doorway, drew herself up and, holding the boots
behind her, surveyed him with a stare of high-bred disdain.

"Been paddlin'?" he inquired

"I see you going down the road in 'em," said the unabashed Mr. Foley,
"and I says to myself, I says, 'Pride'll bear a pinch, but she's going
too far. If she thinks that she can squeedge those little tootsywootsies
of 'ers into them boo--'"

The door slammed violently and left him exchanging grins with Mr. Jobson.

"How's the 'at?" he inquired.

Mr. Jobson winked. "Bet you a level 'arf-dollar I ain't wearing it next
Sunday," he said, in a hoarse whisper.

Mr. Foley edged away.