made him sneeze, and he strewed another handful of wet tea-leaves on the
floor. These he saved carefully from day to day to lay the dust before
sweeping. When the bench and the shop were swept clean, he looked round
with mild satisfaction.

Once a week, in this manner, he gratified his passion for order and
neatness; but when work began, everything fell into disorder, and he
wasted hours peering over the bench with his short sight for tools that
lay under his nose, buried in a heap of litter.

The peculiar musty odour of leather hung about the shop. A few pairs of
boots that had been mended stood in a row, the shining black rim of the
new soles contrasting with the worn, dingy uppers--the patched and mended
shoes of the poor, who must wear them while upper and sole hang together.
They betrayed the age and sex of the wearer as clearly as a photograph.
The shoddy slipper, with the high, French heels, of the smart shop-girl;
the heavy bluchers, studded with nails, of the labourer; the light tan
boots, with elegant, pointed toes, of the clerk or counter-jumper; the
shoes of a small child, with a thin rim of copper to protect the toes.

For the first time since he was on piecework, Jonah set out for the shop
on Monday morning; but when he walked in, Paasch met him with a look of
surprise, thinking he had mistaken the day of the week. He blinked
uneasily when Jonah reached for his apron.

"It vas no use putting on your apron. Dere is not a stitch of work to be
done," he cried in amazement.

Jonah looked round, it was true. He remembered that the repairs, which
were the backbone of Paasch's trade, began to come in slowly on Monday.