turns out to be a misrepresentation. There's the bus fare there and
back--six-pence, mind you--and a wasted morning. Who's going to
recompense me, I should like to know? I'm not made of sixpences."

Burton's hand slipped into his pocket. The little old gentleman
sniffed.

"You needn't insult me, young fellow," he declared. "I've a friend or
two here and I'll set about letting them know the truth."

He was as good as his word. The woman who had departed had also found
her sympathizers. Mr. Waddington watched the departure of a little
stream of people with a puzzled frown.

"What's the matter with them all?" he muttered. "Come here, Burton."

Burton, who had been standing a little in the background, endeavoring to
escape further observation until the commencement of the sale, obeyed
his master's summons promptly.

"Can't reckon things up at all," Mr. Waddington confided. "Why aren't
you round and amongst 'em, Burton, eh? You're generally such a good 'un
at rubbing it into them. Why, the only two people I've seen you talk to
this morning have left the place! What's wrong with you, man?"

"I only wish I knew," Burton replied, fervently.

Mr. Waddingon scratched his chin.

"What's the meaning of those clothes, eh?" he demanded. "You've lost