“Well, he didn’t whine,” he said, slowly.  “He’s got a bit of pride left.”

Meantime the prodigal had reached the town again, and stood ruefully considering his position.

He looked up the street, and then, the well-known shop of Mr. Kybird catching his eye, walked over and inspected the contents of the window.  Sheath-knives, belts, tobacco-boxes, and watches were displayed alluringly behind the glass, sheltered from the sun by a row of cheap clothing dangling from short poles over the shop front.  All the goods were marked in plain figures in reduced circumstances, Mr. Kybird giving a soaring imagination play in the first marking, and a good business faculty in the second.

At these valuables Jack Nugent, with a view of obtaining some idea of prices, gazed for some time.  Then passing between two suits of oilskins which stood as sentinels in the doorway, he entered the shop and smiled affably at Miss Kybird, who was in charge.  At his entrance she put down a piece of fancy-work, which Mr. Kybird called his sock, and with a casual glance at his clothes regarded him with a prejudiced eye.

“Beautiful day,” said the customer; “makes one feel quite young again.”

“What do you want?” inquired Miss Kybird.

[Illustration:  “‘What do you want?’ inquired Miss Kybird.”]

Mr. Nugent turned to a broken cane-chair which stood by the counter, and, after applying severe tests, regardless of the lady’s feelings, sat down upon it and gave a sigh of relief.

“I’ve walked from London,” he said, in explanation.  “I could sit here for hours.”

“Look here——­” began the indignant Miss Kybird.

“Only people would be sure to couple our names together,” continued Mr. Nugent, mournfully.

“When a handsome young man and a good-looking girl——­”

“Do you want to buy anything or not?” demanded Miss Kybird, with an impatient toss of her head.

“No,” said Jack, “I want to sell.”

“You’ve come to the wrong shop, then,” said Miss Kybird; “the warehouse is full of rubbish now.”

The other turned in his chair and looked hard at the window.  “So it is,” he assented.  “It’s a good job I’ve brought you something decent to put there.”

He felt in his pockets and, producing a silver-mounted briar-pipe, a battered watch, a knife, and a few other small articles, deposited them with reverent care upon the counter.

“No use to us,” declared Miss Kybird, anxious to hit back; “we burn coal here.”

“These’ll burn better than the coal you buy,” said the unmoved customer.

“Well, we don’t want them,” retorted Miss Kybird, raising her voice, “and I don’t want any of your impudence.  Get up out of our chair.”

Her heightened tones penetrated to the small and untidy room behind the shop.  The door opened, and Mr. Kybird in his shirt-sleeves appeared at the opening.