“It’ll start all right when it sees me,” observed Mr. Jobson, squinting down at his trousers.

Mother and children, delighted with the success of their scheme, laughed applause, and Mr. Jobson somewhat gratified at the success of his retort, sat down and attacked his breakfast.  A short clay pipe, smoked as a digestive, was impounded by the watchful Mrs. Jobson the moment he had finished it.

“He’d smoke it along the street if I didn’t,” she declared.

“And why not?” demanded her husband—­always do.”

“Not in a top-’at,” said Mrs. Jobson, shaking her head at him.

“Or a tail-coat,” said Dorothy.

“One would spoil the other,” said Gladys.

“I wish something would spoil the hat,” said Mr. Jobson, wistfully.  “It’s no good; I must smoke, mother.”

Mrs. Jobson smiled, and, going to the cupboard, produced, with a smile of triumph, an envelope containing seven dangerous-looking cigars.  Mr. Jobson whistled, and taking one up examined it carefully.

“What do they call ’em, mother?” he inquired.  “The ’Cut and Try Again Smokes’?”

Mrs. Jobson smiled vaguely.  “Me and the girls are going upstairs to get ready now,” she said.  “Keep your eye on him, Bert!”

Father and son grinned at each other, and, to pass the time, took a cigar apiece.  They had just finished them when a swish and rustle of skirts sounded from the stairs, and Mrs. Jobson and the girls, beautifully attired, entered the room and stood buttoning their gloves.  A strong smell of scent fought with the aroma of the cigars.

“You get round me like, so as to hide me a bit,” entreated Mr. Jobson, as they quitted the house.  “I don’t mind so much when we get out of our street.”

Mrs. Jobson laughed his fears to scorn.

“Well, cross the road, then,” said Mr. Jobson, urgently.  “There’s Bill Foley standing at his door.”

His wife sniffed.  “Let him stand,” she said, haughtily.

Mr. Foley failed to avail himself of the permission.  He regarded Mr. Jobson with dilated eyeballs, and, as the party approached, sank slowly into a sitting position on his doorstep, and as the door opened behind him rolled slowly over onto his back and presented an enormous pair of hobnailed soles to the gaze of an interested world.

“I told you ’ow it would be,” said the blushing Mr. Jobson.  “You know what Bill’s like as well as I do.”

His wife tossed her head and they all quickened their pace.  The voice of the ingenious Mr. Foley calling piteously for his mother pursued them to the end of the road.

“I knew what it ’ud be,” said Mr. Jobson, wiping his hot face.  “Bill will never let me ’ear the end of this.”

“Nonsense!” said his wife, bridling.  “Do you mean to tell me you’ve got to ask Bill Foley ’ow you’re to dress?  He’ll soon get tired of it; and, besides, it’s just as well to let him see who you are.  There’s not many tradesmen as would lower themselves by mixing with a plasterer.”