And when trouble was under discussion he would hold that "little
Fluffums"--which was the apprentices' name for Mr. Garvace, the senior
partner and managing director of the Bazaar--would think twice before
he got rid of the only man in the place who could make a windowful of
Manchester goods _tell_.

Then like many a fellow artist he fell a prey to theories.

"The art of window dressing is in its infancy, O' Man--in its blooming
Infancy. All balance and stiffness like a blessed Egyptian picture. No
Joy in it, no blooming Joy! Conventional. A shop window ought to get
hold of people, 'grip 'em as they go along. It stands to reason.
Grip!"

His voice would sink to a kind of quiet bellow. "_Do_ they grip?"

Then after a pause, a savage roar; "_Naw_!"

"He's got a Heavy on," said Mr. Polly. "Go it, O' Man; let's have some
more of it."

"Look at old Morrison's dress-stuff windows! Tidy, tasteful, correct,
I grant you, but Bleak!" He let out the word reinforced to a shout;
"Bleak!"

"Bleak!" echoed Mr. Polly.

"Just pieces of stuff in rows, rows of tidy little puffs, perhaps one
bit just unrolled, quiet tickets."