And Pennyloaf tried to smile at the snub.

Having devoted one evening to domestic quietude, Bob naturally felt himself free to dispose of the next in a manner more to his taste.  The pleasures which sufficed to keep him from home had the same sordid monotony which characterises life in general for the lower strata of society.  If he had money, there was the music-hall; if he had none, there were the streets.  Being in the latter condition to-night, he joined a company of male and female intimates, and with them strolled aimlessly from one familiar rendezvous to another.  Would that it were possible to set down a literal report of the conversation which passed during hours thus spent!  Much of it, of course, would be merely revolting, but for the most part it would consist of such wearying, such incredible imbecilities as no human patience could endure through five minutes’ perusal.  Realise it, however, and you grasp the conditions of what is called the social problem.  As regards Robert Hewett in particular, it would help you to understand the momentous change in his life which was just coming to pass.

On his reaching home at eleven o’clock, Pennyloaf met him with the news that Jack Bartley had looked in twice and seemed very anxious to see him.  To-morrow being Saturday, Jack would call again early in the afternoon.  When the time came, he presented himself, hungry and dirty as ever, but with an unwonted liveliness in his eye.

‘I’ve got something to say to you,’ be began, in a low voice, nodding significantly towards Pennyloaf.

‘Go and buy what you want for to-morrow,’ said Bob to his wife, giving her some money out of his wages.  ‘Take the kids.’

Disappointed in being thus excluded from confidence, but obedient as ever, Pennyloaf speedily prepared herself and the children, the younger of whom she still had to carry.  When she was gone Mr. Bartley assumed a peculiar attitude and began to speak in an undertone.

‘You know that medal as you gave me the other night?’

‘What about it?’

’I sold it for fourpence to a chap I know.  It got me a bed at the lodgings in Pentonville Road.’

‘Oh, you did!  Well, what else?’

Jack was writhing in the most unaccountable way, peering hither and thither out of the corners of his eyes. seeming to have an obstruction in his throat.

’It was in a public-house as I sold it—­a chap I know.  There was another chap as I didn’t know standing just by—­see?  He kep’ looking at the medal, and he kep’ looking at me.  When I went out the chap as I didn’t know followed behind me.  I didn’t see him at first, but he come up with me just at the top of Rosoman Street—­a red-haired chap, looked like a corster.  “Hollo!” says he.  “Hollo!” says I.  “Got any more o’ them medals?” he says, in a quiet way like.  “What do you want to know for?” I says—­’cos you see he was a bloke as I didn’t know nothing about, and there’s no good being over-free with your talk.  He got me to walk on a bit with him, and kept talking.  “You didn’t buy that nowhere,” he says, with a sort of wink.  “What if I didn’t?” I says.  “There’s no harm as I know.”  Well, he kept on with his sort o’ winks, and then he says, “Got any queer to put round?"’