Mrs. Jobson smiled, and, going to the cupboard, produced, with a smile of
triumph, an envelope containing seven dangerous-looking cigars. Mr.
Jobson whistled, and taking one up examined it carefully.

"What do they call 'em, mother?" he inquired. "The 'Cut and Try Again
Smokes'?"

Mrs. Jobson smiled vaguely. "Me and the girls are going upstairs to get
ready now," she said. "Keep your eye on him, Bert!"

Father and son grinned at each other, and, to pass the time, took a cigar
apiece. They had just finished them when a swish and rustle of skirts
sounded from the stairs, and Mrs. Jobson and the girls, beautifully
attired, entered the room and stood buttoning their gloves. A strong
smell of scent fought with the aroma of the cigars.

"You get round me like, so as to hide me a bit," entreated Mr. Jobson, as
they quitted the house. "I don't mind so much when we get out of our
street."

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