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.

"Not good enough," he said, shaking his head. "I've had a good many bets
with you first and last, Alf, but I can't remember as I ever won one yet.
So long."