Charley had an inspiration. He opened the halfdoor, and entered.
"Do you want help?" he said, fixing his eyes on the tailor's, steady and persistent.
"What's the good of wanting—I can't get it," was the irritable reply, as he uncrossed his legs.
Charley took the iron out of his hand. "I'll press, if you'll show me how," he said.
"I don't want a fiddling ten-minutes' help like that."
"It isn't fiddling. I'm going to stay, if you think I'll do."
"You are going to stop-every day?" The old man's voice quavered a little.
"Precisely that." Charley wetted a seam with water as he had often seen tailors do. He dropped the hot iron on the seam, and sniffed with satisfaction.
"Who are you?" said the tailor.
"A man who wants work. The Cure knows. It's all right. Shall I stay?"