"So that's their little game, is it?" he muttered. "Want to make a toff
of me. Where's my clothes got to, I wonder?"

A hasty search satisfied him that they were not in the room, and, pausing
only to drape himself in the counterpane, he made his way into the next.
He passed on to the others, and then, with a growing sense of alarm,
stole softly downstairs and making his way to the shop continued the
search. With the shutters up the place was almost in darkness, and in
spite of his utmost care apples and potatoes rolled on to the floor and
travelled across it in a succession of bumps. Then a sudden turn brought
the scales clattering down.

"Good gracious, Alf!" said a voice. "Whatever are you a-doing of?"

Mr. Jobson turned and eyed his wife, who was standing at the door.

"I'm looking for my clothes, mother," he replied, briefly.

"Clothes!" said Mrs. Jobson, with an obvious attempt at unconcerned
speech. "Clothes! Why, they're on the chair."

"I mean clothes fit for a Christian to wear--fit for a greengrocer to
wear," said Mr. Jobson, raising his voice.

"It was a little surprise for you, dear," said his wife. "Me and Bert
and Gladys and Dorothy 'ave all been saving up for it for ever so long."

"It's very kind of you all," said Mr. Jobson, feebly--"very, but--"

"They've all been doing without things themselves to do it," interjected