Mrs. Jobson laughed his fears to scorn.

"Well, cross the road, then," said Mr. Jobson, urgently. "There's Bill
Foley standing at his door."

His wife sniffed. "Let him stand," she said, haughtily.

Mr. Foley failed to avail himself of the permission. He regarded Mr.
Jobson with dilated eyeballs, and, as the party approached, sank slowly
into a sitting position on his doorstep, and as the door opened behind
him rolled slowly over onto his back and presented an enormous pair of
hobnailed soles to the gaze of an interested world.

"I told you 'ow it would be," said the blushing Mr. Jobson. "You know
what Bill's like as well as I do."

His wife tossed her head and they all quickened their pace. The voice of
the ingenious Mr. Foley calling piteously for his mother pursued them to
the end of the road.

"I knew what it 'ud be," said Mr. Jobson, wiping his hot face. "Bill
will never let me 'ear the end of this."

"Nonsense!" said his wife, bridling. "Do you mean to tell me you've got
to ask Bill Foley 'ow you're to dress? He'll soon get tired of it; and,
besides, it's just as well to let him see who you are. There's not many
tradesmen as would lower themselves by mixing with a plasterer."

Mr. Jobson scratched his ear, but wisely refrained from speech. Once