for poor old Boddy.'

'Boddy?'

'You know of him from the Trent girls, don't you?'

'Yes, yes,' Grail answered, nodding. He seemed about to add
something, but checked himself, and, with a 'good-bye,' went his
way.

Ackroyd turned his steps to a little shop close by. It was of the
kind known as the 'small general'; over the door stood the name of
the proprietor--'Bower'--and on the woodwork along the top of the
windows was painted in characters of faded red: 'The Little Shop
with the Large Heart.' Little it certainly was, and large of heart
if the term could be made to signify an abundant stock. The interior
was so packed with an indescribable variety of merchandise that
there was scarcely space for more than two customers between door
and counter. From an inner room came the sound of a violin, playing
a lively air.

When the young man stepped through the doorway he was at once
encompassed with the strangest blend of odours; every article in the
shop--groceries of all kinds, pastry, cooked meat, bloaters,
newspapers, petty haberdashery, firewood, fruit, soap--seemed to
exhale its essence distressfully under the heat; impossible that
anything sold here should preserve its native savour. The air
swarmed with flies, spite of the dread example of thousands that lay
extinct on sheets of smeared newspaper. On the counter, among other
things, was a perspiring yellow mass, retailed under the name of