could do ever since I left 'er. And Bob wrote down last week to say that
I was to sell the lasts and tools for what they would fetch. And now I
think of it, I wish you would run your eye over the lasts and bench, an'
tell me what they ought to fetch. A man offered me three pounds for the
lot, but I know that's too cheap."

"Yer'll niver get wot 'e gave fer 'em, but gimme a piece of paper, an'
I'll work it out," said Jonah.

In half an hour he made a rough inventory based on the cost and present
condition of the material.

"I make it ten pounds odd, but I don't think yer'll git it," he said at
last. "Seven pounds would be a fair offer, money down."

"I'd be thankful to get that," said Mrs Watkins.

Jonah walked thoughtfully up Cardigan Street. Here was the chance of a
lifetime, if a man had a few dollars. With Bob's outfit, he could open a
shop on the Road, and run rings round Paasch and the others. But seven
pounds! He had never handled so much money in his life, and there was no
one to lend it to him. Mrs Yabsley was as poor as a crow. Well, he would
fit up the back room as a workshop, and go on at Packard's as an outdoor
finisher, carrying a huge bag of boots to and from the factory every week,
like Tom Mullins.

When Jonah reached the cottage, he found Mrs Yabsley sorting the shirts
and collars; Ada was reading a penny novelette. She had left Packard's
without ceremony on her wedding-day, and was spending her honeymoon on
the back veranda. Her tastes were very simple. Give her nothing to do,