Alone, of all Borlase and Company’s people, he slept at home, living at a house in Denmark Street, near the back of the shop. He had grown to the lean, grey pantaloon he was, in Borlase and Company’s service, and rising to a proud stipend of two pounds a week, had taken to his arms the faded little wife who had waited for him. His position was deemed one of the plums of the establishment.
On an afternoon, early in January, the eyes of this John Hunt strayed often to the clock. Not that he longed for tea-time: had it not been Saturday he might have wished for five o’clock to come round, but on Saturdays he was not allowed to go home, but shared the bounty of Borlase and Company with the twenty-four young men and twenty-nine ‘young persons’ of the counters. He knew very well that to-day there could be no hurried home-going; and however he might weary to assure himself that all was well in the shabby little six-roomed house, where the shabby little wife was moving about her work, not quite so actively as usual, he must await, with what patience he might, the end of the day’s work. And having an occasion for anxiety, he found the hours, busy as they were, long in passing. There was a little more work during the half hour which the assistants divided among them, in thirds, for tea. Customers were many, and with the best will in the world to keep them in hand, the men and girls had to bear frequent complaints from impatient buyers, and Hunt, hurrying at the call of ‘sign’ – he had no other name in the shop – was summoned hither and thither to stay the departure of patrons who ‘really couldn’t wait about any longer’. To suffer a customer to go away unsupplied was the cardinal sin at Borlase’s: ‘getting the swop’ the young people called it. The rule of the place required that, on this emergency threatening, Mr Borlase, or the temporary shop walker, must be called in. Three ‘swops’ involved ‘the sack’; every one knew that: and it is wonderful what patience that knowledge imparted to the assistants at the various counters.
The grand rush of the week, however, came after tea on Saturday evening, when the shop grew hot and gassy even in January, and a vague odour of damp umbrellas pervaded everything. Customers waited, row upon row. It was not easy to move among them: and to keep them good humoured required endless resource and tact. The day’s meridian was at nine o’clock. After that, the tide of purchasers would slacken, by degrees, until closing time. The night was inclement, but as the critical opportunity of Sunday morning chapel would soon be at hand, the rain could not keep folk at home. On one side of the door, the shop-window was dull with drops. By some oversight, the grating overhead had not been opened on this side to let the steam out. Every one in the shop was damp, cross, and sticky at the fingers.
A stout inhabitant entered at ten, and spent a happy hour inspecting the entire stock of bonnet ribbons. She decided a dozen times on this or that: a dozen times she altered her mind, at the reflection that each colour of the solar spectrum failed to suit ‘her style.’ No, nothing would do. She must go somewhere else, that was all; if the young lady hadn’t got what she wanted, it was no use of the young lady for to try for to put her off with something else. It was all very well, she added, to say they had shown her everything. If it was too much trouble to get it down (here the rotund lady raised her voice), why, better say so at once.
‘Sign!’ said the shop girl, wearily.
‘What is it, Miss?’
‘Lady wishes for a dark ’eliotrope ribbon, shot with cerise.’ (Such atrocities were common at Borlase’s.)
‘Well, haven’t you shown the lady—?’
‘We haven’t the width.’ Hunt vainly endeavoured to still the rising storm: the customer was inexorable. No, she would go; it was quite plain they didn’t mean to serve her; she had been kept waiting—’
‘Very sorry we cannot suit you, Madam, now; but we shall be having some new ribbons in on Monday.’ The outraged dame departed.
At the door she encountered the swift eye of Borlase and Company, which at once detected something wrong. No, she was not suited. Mr Borlase was quite sure if— No, they had admitted they hadn’t got it; it was no good wasting any more of her time. She would just be off.
‘May I ask who said that we were out of stock?’ Mr Borlase asked. The tone was suave, but the look dangerous.
‘The young person at the counter said so; so did that shabby-looking man that signs the bills,’ he was answered. Mr Borlase looked more dangerous still.
By this time the shutters were being put up by the junior assistants, the collars of their black coats turned up to keep off a little of the fine rain. Only the side door remained open, and a man stood by it to let the customers out, one by one. Hunt had slipped off to his desk and was already rapidly adding up counterfoils, before the lights were put out in the shop. Mr Borlase rolled pompously into the little office about this time, and began to pay the staff, who were waiting, in a long queue, to file past him. He recited in the tone of a patron the pay of each assistant, as he shoved it through the little cash window, distracting Hunt’s calculations horribly.
The latter was working rapidly. It was not easy to keep his mind on the figures. He was tired and anxious; as the time for going home came nearer, he grew even excited. Finally, the last book was made up, and the grand total, verified by comparison with the till, happily ‘came out’ right. Mr Borlase, who had lit a cigar, laid it cautiously down, and checked the money. Then he gave Hunt his forty shillings, and the drudge, buttoning up his shabby frockcoat, prepared to go. This operation attracting Mr Borlase’s attention, recalled the words of the angry customer. He called Hunt back and surveyed him coldly. The coat was faded and shiny. It dragged in creases at the buttonholes, and the buttons showed an edge of metal, where the cloth covering had worn out. The braid down the front was threadbare, and showed grey in places. Certainly his shop-walker was inexcusably shabby.
‘How is it that your coat is so unsightly, Hunt?’ Mr Borlase at length demanded, querulously. ‘It’s a disgrace to my establishment, and customers remark upon it. Just look to it that you make yourself presentable. I can’t have a scarecrow walking my shop; it reflects upon me – upon me, mind you!’
Hunt murmured something to the effect that the coat certainly was rather old; but his master interrupted him impatiently. ‘Old,’ he said; ‘of course it’s old – much too old. If you can’t dress yourself properly, I shall find some one who can. And, Hunt,’ he added, reminiscently, ‘another thing. I’ve once or twice noticed on week-days that you smell of tobacco – shag tobacco. That’s another thing I must have mended. I can’t have my customers disgusted by your filthy habits. Look to that also’; and he turned away, leaving Hunt to shuffle off homeward under an inefficient umbrella.
II
Hunt paused on the doorstep of the little house in Denmark Street, and looked up, anxiously, at the first-floor window. All dark – and, so far, so good. He opened the door noiselessly with a latch-key and listened. Everything was quiet. The little wife had gone to bed then, and he made his way on tiptoe to the kitchen, lit a paraffin lamp, spread the discreditable coat wide open on two nails, that it might dry, and put on his slippers. A scratching at the back door, mingled with faint whines, made him step quickly across the kitchen, to admit a mongrel fox-terrier. ‘What, Joey!’ he cried, in the high-pitched voice which some men use to dogs and children – ‘What, Joey! What the little bow-wow – didn’t they let you in?’ He sat down as the animal frisked around him, jumping at last into his lap, to lick his face, and nuzzle its cold nose against his neck, while he pulled its ears caressingly and tried to look into the eager, welcoming eyes. To a man humbled, lonely, and as yet childless, the demonstrative admiration of the dog was precious: this one living thing, and the tired woman upstairs, looked up to him, and he could not spare even the dog’s homage.
Presently he turned to the deal table – spotless, and scrubbed until the harder fibres of the wood stood out in ridges where the softer parts had worn away. On one corner a piece of coarse tablecloth, oft darned, had been spread and turned over, to cover something that lay under
it. He turned it back and began to eat his supper of bread and cheese, cutting off snips of rind to throw to the dog, sitting alert on its haunches with anticipatory wags. Supper finished, Hunt took his money, in a dirty canvas bag, from his pocket, and laid it out on the table. Seven shillings for the rent, three shillings to complete the guinea that was hoarding for a certain other purpose; that left thirty shillings. Two shillings for his own pocket; eighteen shillings, Mary’s housekeeping money; two shillings for the old mother who lived down in Camberwell, to be near the workhouse, whence came a small weekly relief that helped to keep her. Eight shillings over: John thought he knew of a shop where a second-hand frockcoat (his strict official costume as shop-walker) was offered for ten shillings, but might be compassed, with discretion, for eight. He gathered up the money, and looked wistfully at the tin tobacco-box on the dresser shelf.
No; it was empty, he remembered. He had not been able to save the threepence halfpenny this week. Still – there might be a few grains of dust in it. He took down a blackened clay pipe, ran his little finger round the bowl, and shook the box tentatively. Something rustled within; he put his thumb nail to the lid. Half an ounce of shag screwed up in paper! So the little wife had thought of him, and prepared this surprise. Dear girl. The old man’s eyes moistened – he was an old man, though only forty by the calendar – as he unwrapped the tobacco, carefully shaking particles of the dust from folds in the paper, and filled himself half a pipe. Then he smoked, fingering the dog’s ears reflectively and mentally adding up afresh his scanty moneys. Certainly it was good that he should be able to put by the three shillings this Saturday: that guinea might be wanted, any day; and after that there would be at least half-a-crown a week, and beer-money, needed for the charwoman who was to ‘do for’ the missus and give an eye to the house, presently.
III
When he blew out the lamp, and crept, slippers in hand, upstairs, he was shivering a little. He stood a moment outside the bedroom door and lit a match for the candle, to avoid disturbing the sleeping wife. He undressed very quietly; but the woman moved at some slight sound, and sat up at once on seeing him, smiling, and holding out her arms. He put them down very gently.
‘Careful, dearie,’ he said; ‘careful, you know,’ and took her head in his arm. ‘How have you been?’
‘Oh, very bobbish. So you found the bit o’ smoke?’ – his breath being her informant.
‘Yes, dear. But you oughtn’t to scrape—’
She put her hand over his mouth. ‘Hush,’ she said, ‘you old stupid. I couldn’t let you go without the only little bit of comfort. But look here,’ she added gravely; ‘look what’s come.’ She drew a folded buff paper from under the pillow. She had brought it upstairs in her hand, that the sight of it might not vex him before supper. It was a printed circular from the local police station, remarking that Mr Hunt had taken out a license to keep one dog the year before, but had not renewed it this year at its expiration. If Mr Hunt had now ceased to keep one dog, the circular politely concluded, this notice might be disregarded.
He looked blank. Seven-and-sixpence for Joey. The little doggy never appeared in the light of an extravagance except at license-time; he was an economical quadruped, subsisting on the scraps, and such treasure-trove as he could pick up in the gutter. But the notice meant good-bye to the frock-coat, for the present week at least; and Hunt knew that it might be long enough before he had eight shillings in his pocket again.
He brightened up, however, before the little woman had time to remark his depression.
‘All right,’ he said, cheerfully, ‘I’ve got seven-and-six over, old girl. I’ll go round to the post office and get the license, first thing on Monday morning.’
‘You’d better let me get it; you’ll be late if you go yourself. I can just as well pop round, in the morning.’
‘Oh, I don’t like you to go out any more than you’re obliged to. I’ll start a little earlier. I dare say Miss King’ll be in the shop.’
The idea of discarding the dog never for an instant occurred to either.
In the morning – Sunday – John slipped early out of bed, lit the fire below stairs, and was at his wife’s beside with a cup of tea when she awoke. In the meantime, he had been to a near chemist’s where a painted tin plate proclaimed that medicines could be obtained on the Sabbath by ringing the bell, and procured a pennyworth of ammonia – he called it ‘ahmonia’ – from the grumbling apprentice. Then, laying the despised coat on the kitchen table, he had carefully brushed it, rubbed the pungent fluid into the cloth with a rag, and brushed yet again. Afterwards, using the handle of a pen, he inked the thread-bare places and the frayed buttonholes, spread the condemned garment on a clothes-line that the smell of the ammonia might evaporate, and stretched the sleeves and pulled the lappels, as well as he could, into better shape. This had been, in its time, a Sunday coat, purchased not secondhand but new, in some moment of temporary prosperity, though he had been obliged to depose it to every day wear long since, and had never replaced it. This half hour’s work would give it a fresh lease of life, he reflected, as he stepped back to contemplate the effect – if only the buttons didn’t happen to catch Borlase and Company’s eye. And later on, he would manage to get another.
IV
Monday morning was a slack time at Borlase’s – a time devoted to putting in order stock which had been disturbed on Saturday night, and which was allowed, perforce, to be put away hurriedly in the hey-day of harvest. Ribbons had to be re-rolled in their paper interlining, and neatly secured with tiny pins. Calicoes had to be refolded in tighter bales: hat trimmings and artificial flowers to be dusted with a sort of overgrown paint-brush, and laid carefully in their shiny black boxes. A general overhauling of wares, in short, had to be done, in the intervals of serving a few early callers, until, after dinner, the ladies of the suburb began to arrive, and the shop to assume its afternoon bustle. John checked invoices, entered up the bought ledger, and verified the charges of city warehousemen for goods newly delivered, crossing the narrow deep shop to reach the warehouse behind in search of various consignments, which needed to be ‘passed’ as correct and entered in the stock book, before being placed on the shelves for sale. Mr Borlase was ‘signing’ in the shop, as usual: this duty only devolved upon Hunt on the busy night of the seventh day.
Presently he detected an error in a piece of dress stuff, and drew his principal, by the eye, into the corner where it lay.
‘Schweitzer and Brunn invoice this as three dozen and five,’ he said, ‘It’s marked five dozen and three on the cover.’
‘Well, which is it?’
‘Five three, I should think, sir. The mistake’s more likely to be in the bill than in the goods.’
‘Well, take it out and measure it, can’t you.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Hunt replied. As he shuffled off, Mr Borlase eyed his round shoulders and shining elbows with disapprobation. In the afternoon light, Hunt looked shabbier than ever. Customers would get the idea that he was underpaid. This must be looked to.
In a little while Hunt sought the master’s eye again. ‘It’s five dozen and three, right enough,’ he said: ‘five three, good measure. Will you have it cut, or send for a corrected invoice?’
Mr Borlase glared. ‘You’ve nothing to do with the measure,’ he said, sharply: ‘what’s it to do with you? All you’ve got to do is to see that it holds three dozen and five: stop there. I can’t keep my books and Schweitzer’s too. Mark it “query over” in the Stock Book. Haven’t you got enough to fill your time without wasting it on other people’s blunders as well as your own?’
‘And, Hunt,’ he added, sternly, ‘what about that coat of yours? I told you on Saturday it wouldn’t do. Why haven’t you come in a better one?’
‘I haven’t got a better one, sir,’ Hunt faltered.
‘You – haven’t – got – a better one, sir,’ Borlase replied mocking him. ‘Then why the devil haven’t you bought yourself a better one, sir?’
Hunt answered that there hadn’t been time: and besides, he had not the money.
‘You haven’t the money? What do you mean by “you haven’t the money?” Weren’t you paid on Saturday? “Yes you know” – but yes, you don’t know’ – the temper of Borlase and Company rose, or was affected to rise, higher: ‘But yes, you don’t know,’ said the outraged draper, ‘that you disgrace my shop.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir: I shall try what I can do next Saturday: but I have a good many expenses just now; and I’ve had the dog license to pay this morning, and my wife—’
‘Dog license? What do you want with dog licenses? What do you want with dogs? Put the brute in a bucket of water – that’s the way to pay dog licenses! Why – the coat’s absolutely falling to pieces: look at the braid, look at the elbows.’ Mr Borlase in his wrath, seized one of the lappels in his finger, and gave it a pull. The worn braid, accustomed to more tender usage, yielded and ripped a foot or more down the front, showing the frayed edges beneath.
The Penguin Book of the British Short Story, Volume 1 Page 51