was hot and red.

"Just leave a drop in the jug, an' I'll be thankful for it when I'm done,"
she replied, wiping her forehead on her sleeve. Jonah had risen
in her esteem.

After some awkward attempts at conversation, Jonah relapsed into silence.
He was glad that he had brought his mouth-organ, won in a shilling raffle.
He would give them a tune later on.

When she had finished the last shirt, Mrs Yabsley looked at the clock
with an exclamation. It was nearly ten. She had to deliver the shirts,
and then buy the week's supplies. For she did her shopping at the last
minute, in a panic. It had been her mother's way--to dash into the
butcher's as he swept the last bones together, to hammer at the grocer's
door as he turned out the lights. And she always forgot something which
she got on Sunday morning from the little shop at the corner.

As she was tying the shirts into bundles, she heard the tinkle of a bell
in the street, and a hoarse voice that cried:

"Peas an' pies, all 'ot, all 'ot!"

"'Ow'd yer like some peas, Joe?" she cried, dropping the shirts and
seizing a basin.

"I wouldn't mind," said Jonah.

"'Ere, Ada, run an' git threepenn'orth," she cried.