had put by for a rainy day, and we 'ad to begin all over again. What are
we going to live on? O' course, you might earn something by singing in
the street; people who like funny faces might give you something! Why
not go upstairs and put your 'ead under the bed-clothes and practise a
bit?"

Mr. Porter coughed. "It'll be all right," he said, confidently. "Our
committee knows what it's about; Bert Robinson is one of the best
speakers I've ever 'eard. If we don't all get five bob a week more I'll
eat my 'ead."

"It's the best thing you could do with it," snapped his wife. She took
up her iron again, and turning an obstinate back to his remarks resumed
her work.

Mr. Porter lay long next morning, and, dressing with comfortable
slowness, noticed with pleasure that the sun was shining. Visions of a
good breakfast and a digestive pipe, followed by a walk in the fresh air,
passed before his eyes as he laced his boots. Whistling cheerfully he
went briskly downstairs.

It was an October morning, but despite the invigorating chill in the air
the kitchen-grate was cold and dull. Herring-bones and a disorderly
collection of dirty cups and platters graced the table. Perplexed and
angry, he looked around for his wife, and then, opening the back-door,
stood gaping with astonishment. The wife of his bosom, who should have
had a bright fire and a good breakfast waiting for him, was sitting on a
box in the sunshine, elbows on knees and puffing laboriously at a
cigarette.