It so happened that the “putter-out” in the brace and umbrella-room was an old man named Christopher, who had been in the employment of the Ashtons (father and son) for thirty years. He professed to be very pious and very conscientious, but lamented that increasing years brought with it many ailments and infirmities, such, for instance, as headaches, dizziness, sudden weakness of the limbs, and attacks of spasms, for the cure of which he kept a bottle of peppermint in a corner cupboard.
It was into this room Augusta used to come dancing, to coax old Christopher out of bits of waste leather, and other odds and ends, for which only a child could find use. She was fond of cutting and snipping, and, with an eye to his own advantage, the cunning old fellow had taught her how to use the stamps, so that she might amuse herself by helping him. Then he bespoke her compassion for his aches and pains, and often, on holiday afternoons, was troubled with one or other ailment, which a pull at the bottle and a nap on the bundles of leather, or gingham, alone could relieve—“if Miss Augusta would be so obleeging an’ so koind as to stamp out a few tabs or straps for him, or count out umbrella ferules, or wheels, or handles,” for him.
And she, full of the superabundant energy of youth, did it, nothing loth; though as her own years increased, and with them her ability to help, came a sharp sense that old Christopher was a hypocrite—knowledge she confided to Jabez one day, when the sanctimonious putter-out was resting his aching head and uncertain legs, as usual; and in order to convince him she drew a bottle of gin, not peppermint, from under a pile of white kid.
Jabez, too, had been sorry for the old fellow, and often added a good part of Christopher’s work to his own, to relieve him. It was this fact which brought both Christophers to book. The old cant was so grievously afflicted on the Monday afternoon, that Jabez, seeing him quite incapable of doing his work properly (he was putting out umbrellas), undertook to do it for him, though it was no business of his—and so Mrs. Ashton would have told him, had she been there.
He measured off what he knew to be sufficient gingham for two dozen umbrellas (a workwoman standing by in waiting), and was about to cut off the length when the woman arrested his hand.
“Yo’re furgettin’ th’ weaste, mi lad; Mester Christopher allus alleaws fur weaste.”
He looked at the woman, conscious there could be no waste in cutting umbrella-gores. She winked at him.
“Oh,” said Jabez, conscious he was learning something not down in his indentures. “And how much does he allow?”
“Abeawt a yard an’ a hauve th’ dozen.” she replied.
“And how do you contrive to waste it?” Jabez asked.