Paasch always began the week by making a pair of boots for the window,which he sold at half price when the leather had perished.In his eagerness for work,he had forgotten that Paasch's business was so small.
He looked round with annoyance,realizing that he would never earn the wages here that he needed for his child.For he usually earned about fifteen shillings,except in the Christmas season,when trade was brisk.
Then he drew more than a pound.This sum of money,which had formerly satisfied his wants,now seemed a mere flea-bite.
He looked round with a sudden scorn on the musty shop that had given him work and food since he was a boy.The sight of the old man,bending over the last,with his simple,placid face,annoyed him.And he felt a sudden enmity for this man whose old-fashioned ways had let him grow grey here like a rat in a hole.
He stared round,wondering if anything could be done to improve the business.The shop wanted livening up with a coat of paint.He would put new shelves up,run a partition across,and dress the windows like the shops down town.In his eager thoughts he saw the dingy shop transformed under his touch,spick and span,alive with customers,who jostled one another as they passed in and out,the coin clinking merrily in the till.
He awoke as from a dream,and looked with dismay on the small,grimy shop keeping pace with its master's old age.Suddenly an idea came into his head,and he stared at Paasch with a hard,calculating look in his eyes.
Then he got up,and walked abruptly out of the shop.The old German,who was used to his sudden humours and utter want of manners peered after his retreating figure with a puzzled look.
Jonah had walked out of the door to look for work.He saw that it was useless to expect the constant work and wages that he needed from Paasch,for the old man's business had remained stationary during the twelve years that Jonah had worked for him.And he had decided to leave him,if a job could be found.He stood on the footpath and surveyed the Road with some anxiety.There were plenty of shops,but few of them in which he would be welcome,owing to his reputation as leader of the Push.For years he had been at daggers drawn with the owners of the three largest shops,and the small fry could barely make a living for themselves.
The street-arab in him,used to the freedom of a small shop,recoiled from the thought of Packard's,the huge factory where you became a machine,repeating one operation indefinitely till you were fit for nothing else.
Paasch had taught him the trade thoroughly,from cutting out the insoles to running the bead-iron round the finished boot.As a forlorn hope,he resolved to call on Bob Watkins.Bob,who always passed the time of day with him,had been laid up with a bad cold for weeks.He might be glad of some help.Jonah found the shop empty,the bench and tools covered with dust.Mrs Watkins came in answer to his knock.
"Bob's done 'is last day's work 'ere,"she said,using her handkerchief.
"'E 'ad a terrible cold all the winter,an'at last 'e got so bad we 'ad to call the doctor in,an''e told 'im 'e was in a gallopin'consumption,an'sent 'im away to some 'ome on the mountains.""It's no use askin'fer a job,then?"inquired Jonah.
"None at all,"said the woman."Bob neglected the work for a long time,as 'e was too weak to do it,an'the customers took their work away.
In fact,I'm giving up the shop,an'going back to business.I was a dressmaker before I got married,and my sister's 'ad more work than she could do ever since I left 'er.And Bob wrote down last week to say that I was to sell the lasts and tools for what they would fetch.And now Ithink of it,I wish you would run your eye over the lasts and bench,an'tell me what they ought to fetch.A man offered me three pounds for the lot,but I know that's too cheap.""Yer'll niver get wot 'e gave fer 'em,but gimme a piece of paper,an'I'll work it out,"said Jonah.
In half an hour he made a rough inventory based on the cost and present condition of the material.
"I make it ten pounds odd,but I don't think yer'll git it,"he said at last."Seven pounds would be a fair offer,money down.""I'd be thankful to get that,"said Mrs Watkins.
Jonah walked thoughtfully up Cardigan Street.Here was the chance of a lifetime,if a man had a few dollars.With Bob's outfit,he could open a shop on the Road,and run rings round Paasch and the others.But seven pounds!He had never handled so much money in his life,and there was no one to lend it to him.Mrs Yabsley was as poor as a crow.Well,he would fit up the back room as a workshop,and go on at Packard's as an outdoor finisher,carrying a huge bag of boots to and from the factory every week,like Tom Mullins.
When Jonah reached the cottage,he found Mrs Yabsley sorting the shirts and collars;Ada was reading a penny novelette.She had left Packard's without ceremony on her wedding-day,and was spending her honeymoon on the back veranda.Her tastes were very simple.Give her nothing to do,a novelette to read,and some lollies to suck,and she was satisfied.
Ray,who was growing too big for the box-cradle,was lying on a sugar-bag in the shade.
"W'y,Joe,yer face is as long as a fiddle!"cried Mrs Yabsley,cheerfully."Wot's up?'Ave yer got the sack?""No,but Dutchy's got nuthin'fer me till We'n'sday.I might 'ave known that.An'anyhow,if I earned more than a quid,'e'd break 'is 'eart.""Well,a quid's no good to a man wi'a wife an'family,"replied the old woman."Wot do yer reckon on doin'?"She knew that her judgment of Jonah was being put to the test,and she remarked his gloomy face with satisfaction.
"I'm goin'ter chuck Dutchy,if I can git a job,"said Jonah."I went round ter Bob Watkins,but 'e's in the 'orspital,an''is wife's sellin''is tools."
"Wot does she want for 'em?"asked Mrs Yabsley,with a curious look.
"Seven quid,an'they'd set a man up fer life,"said Jonah.
