useless to expect the constant work and wages that he needed from Paasch,
for the old man's business had remained stationary during the twelve years
that Jonah had worked for him. And he had decided to leave him, if a job
could be found. He stood on the footpath and surveyed the Road with some
anxiety. There were plenty of shops, but few of them in which he would be
welcome, owing to his reputation as leader of the Push. For years he had
been at daggers drawn with the owners of the three largest shops, and the
small fry could barely make a living for themselves.

The street-arab in him, used to the freedom of a small shop, recoiled from
the thought of Packard's, the huge factory where you became a machine,
repeating one operation indefinitely till you were fit for nothing else.
Paasch had taught him the trade thoroughly, from cutting out the insoles
to running the bead-iron round the finished boot. As a forlorn hope, he
resolved to call on Bob Watkins. Bob, who always passed the time of day
with him, had been laid up with a bad cold for weeks. He might be glad
of some help. Jonah found the shop empty, the bench and tools covered
with dust. Mrs Watkins came in answer to his knock.

"Bob's done 'is last day's work 'ere," she said, using her handkerchief.
"'E 'ad a terrible cold all the winter, an' at last 'e got so bad we 'ad
to call the doctor in, an' 'e told 'im 'e was in a gallopin' consumption,
an' sent 'im away to some 'ome on the mountains."

"It's no use askin' fer a job, then?" inquired Jonah.

"None at all," said the woman. "Bob neglected the work for a long time,
as 'e was too weak to do it, an' the customers took their work away.
In fact, I'm giving up the shop, an' going back to business. I was a
dressmaker before I got married, and my sister's 'ad more work than she