“You do as you’re told,” exclaimed the harassed Mr. Billing.  “I’m not going to tell ’em; it’s you.”

Mrs. Billing returned to the parlour, and, with Mr. Billing lurking in the background, busied herself over a china flower-pot that stood in the window, and turned an anxious eye upon three men waiting outside.  After a glance or two she went to the door.

“Did you want to see my husband?” she inquired.

The biggest of the three nodded.  “Yus,” he said, shortly.

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Billing, “but he ’ad to go early this morning.  Was it anything partikler?”

“Gorn?” said the other, in disappointed tones.  “Well, you tell ’im I’ll see ’im later on.”

He turned away, and, followed by the other two, walked slowly up the road.  Mr. Billing, after waiting till the coast was clear, went off in the other direction.

He sought counsel of his friend and mentor that afternoon, and stood beaming with pride at the praise lavished upon him.  Mr. Purnip’s co-workers were no less enthusiastic than their chief; and various suggestions were made to Mr. Billing as to his behaviour in the unlikely event of further attacks upon his noble person.

He tried to remember the suggestions in the harassing days that followed; baiting Joe Billing becoming popular as a pastime from which no evil results need be feared.  It was creditable to his fellow-citizens that most of them refrained from violence with a man who declined to hit back, but as a butt his success was assured.  The night when a gawky lad of eighteen drank up his beer, and then invited him to step outside if he didn’t like it, dwelt long in his memory.  And Elk Street thrilled one evening at the sight of their erstwhile champion flying up the road hotly pursued by a foeman half his size.  His explanation to his indignant wife that, having turned the other cheek the night before, he was in no mood for further punishment, was received in chilling silence.

“They’ll soon get tired of it,” he said, hopefully; “and I ain’t going to be beat by a lot of chaps wot I could lick with one ’and tied behind me.  They’ll get to understand in time; Mr. Purnip says so.  It’s a pity that you don’t try and do some good yourself.”

Mrs. Billing received the suggestion with a sniff; but the seed was sown.  She thought the matter over in private, and came to the conclusion that, if her husband wished her to participate in good works, it was not for her to deny him.  Hitherto her efforts in that direction had been promptly suppressed; Mr. Billing’s idea being that if a woman looked after her home and her husband properly there should be neither time nor desire for anything else.  His surprise on arriving home to tea on Saturday afternoon, and finding a couple of hard-working neighbours devouring his substance, almost deprived him of speech.

“Poor things,” said his wife, after the guests had gone; “they did enjoy it.  It’s cheered ’em up wonderful.  You and Mr. Purnip are quite right.  I can see that now.  You can tell him that it was you what put it into my ’art.”