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
clear of his own district mental agitation subsided, but bodily
discomfort increased at every step. The hat and the collar bothered him
most, but every article of attire contributed its share. His uneasiness
was so manifest that Mrs. Jobson, after a little womanly sympathy,
suggested that, besides Sundays, it might be as well to wear them
occasionally of an evening in order to get used to them.

"What, 'ave I got to wear them every Sunday?" demanded the unfortunate,
blankly; "why, I thought they was only for Bank Holidays."

Mrs. Jobson told him not to be silly.