“people were streaming
home from work.”
We sallied forth together, I keeping very close to him, lest he should grow suspicious and make up his mind to run. Every minute did I expect that he would plunge into the middle of the road and tear madly down the street. And it was a trouble to keep by the side of him; the people were streaming home from work, were out marketing, looking for something cheap for tea or supper to be bought off the barrows which were flanking the kerbstones. Side by side, we got jostled occasionally, the pavement being narrow and the people thickish, and twice I caught surreptitiously at the hem of his garment when I thought that we were going to be separated. And, as usual, there was not a policeman on the beat anywhere—no sign of official force—nothing but men and women, boys and girls, the boys terribly in the way, and after the girls!
“Do you call this a few doors off?” said Youson, snappishly, at last.
“Comparatively—oh, yes.”
“It looks like half-a-mile,” he grumbled.
“Another minute or two, Mr. Youson. I am sorry you are so pressed for time.”
“So am I. Not but what I have had about enough of your company, with that ridiculous hat of yours over your eyes,” he added, ungraciously. “I wish I had never come near your infernal shop. You are about the slowest tradesman I have ever encountered.”
“It does not pay to be too fast in my line of business.”
“Oh, I don’t blame you, I don’t blame you, sir; I only say I wish——what are you jumping at? Ain’t you well? Are you subject to anything?” he asked. “Spasms or twitches?”