She leaned against the iron palings of a house for support, while Mr. Jobson, standing on the kerb, looked up and down the road for a cab.  A four-wheeler appeared just in time to prevent the scandal—­of Mrs. Jobson removing her boots in the street.

“Thank goodness,” she gasped, as she climbed in.  “Never mind about untying ’em, Alf; cut the laces and get ’em off quick.”

They drove home with the boots standing side by side on the seat in front of them.  Mr. Jobson got out first and knocked at the door, and as soon as it opened Mrs. Jobson pattered across the intervening space with the boots dangling from her hand.  She had nearly reached the door when Mr. Foley, who had a diabolical habit of always being on hand when he was least wanted, appeared suddenly from the offside of the cab.

“Been paddlin’?” he inquired.

Mrs. Jobson, safe in her doorway, drew herself up and, holding the boots behind her, surveyed him with a stare of high-bred disdain.

“Been paddlin’?” he inquired

“I see you going down the road in ’em,” said the unabashed Mr. Foley, “and I says to myself, I says, ’Pride’ll bear a pinch, but she’s going too far.  If she thinks that she can squeedge those little tootsywootsies of ‘ers into them boo—­’”

The door slammed violently and left him exchanging grins with Mr. Jobson.

“How’s the ’at?” he inquired.

Mr. Jobson winked.  “Bet you a level ’arf-dollar I ain’t wearing it next Sunday,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.

Mr. Foley edged away.

“Not good enough,” he said, shaking his head.  “I’ve had a good many bets with you first and last, Alf, but I can’t remember as I ever won one yet.  So long.”