His wife essayed another smile, but failed. She set her lips together
and plodded on, Mr. Jobson chatting cheerily and taking no notice of the
fact that she kept lurching against him. Two miles from home she stopped
and eyed him fixedly.

"If I don't get these boots off, Alf, I shall be a 'elpless cripple for
the rest of my days," she murmured. "My ankle's gone over three times."

"But you can't take 'em off here," said Mr. Jobson, hastily. "Think 'ow
it would look."

"I must 'ave a cab or something," said his wife, hysterically. "If I
don't get 'em off soon I shall scream."

She leaned against the iron palings of a house for support, while Mr.
Jobson, standing on the kerb, looked up and down the road for a cab. A
four-wheeler appeared just in time to prevent the scandal--of Mrs. Jobson
removing her boots in the street.

"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.