All sorts came in, reflected the pawnbroker, you could never tell. Some needed money desperately and some just wanted it at the moment. Young men pawn watches to pay the landlady, to back a horse, to take a girl out to dinner, to stave off a creditor, to buy food. A decent coat disguises motives. Sometimes a "real lady," who had been playing too much bridge, "popped" something really worth while, and always in a quiet shop like this; sometimes "flashy" people came with diamonds, and then you had to keep your eyes open.
In came a little wisp of a woman. She put sixpence on the counter. I noticed her thin wrists and the criss-cross grimed lines on her fingers. She called the pawnbroker "sir." When she had gone he showed me the article on which she was paying interest. It was a small box with mother-of-pearl diamonds set in the lid, many of them missing. She had been paying interest for two years.
In every pawnshop there are thousands of things like this box: links with happier days perhaps, things which sentiment enthrones in the heart. I could build up a dozen stories round this box: the gift of a mother, a dead husband, a son? A Pandora's box full of the winds of old happiness? I leave it to your imagination.
* * *
Then, at the tail of a number of people, some of whom were obviously pledging their overcoats for a long drink of beer, came a woman with dark rings round her eyes, and she said:
"My husband's ill ... very ill ... and I must, I simply must...."
She wrestled unhappily with her left hand and placed on the counter a plain gold ring....
"That was horrible," I said.
"Look here," replied the pawnbroker. He opened a drawer and ran his fingers through a pile of wedding rings. "They keep them to the end," he explained, "but——"
"I understand. I've seen quite enough. I think I'll be moving on."