Meanwhile the weeks ran into a month,and Jonah had not paid expenses.
He could hold out for three months according to his calculation,but he saw the end rapidly approaching,when he must retire covered with ignominious defeat.He would have thrown up the sponge there and then,but for the thought of the straight-limbed child in Cardigan Street,for whom he wanted money--money to feed and clothe him for the world to admire.
One Saturday night,weary of waiting for the custom that never came,he closed the shop,and joined Ada,who was waiting on the footpath.
They sauntered along,Ada stopping every minute to look into the shop windows,while Jonah,gloomy and taciturn,turned his back on the lighted windows with impatience.Presently Ada gave a cry of delight before the draper's.
"I say,Joe,that bonnet would suit the kid all to pieces.An'look at the price!Only last week they was seven an'a kick."Jonah turned and looked at the window.The bonnet,fluffy and absurd,was marked with a ticket bearing an enormous figure 4in red ink,and beside it,faintly marked in pencil,the number 11.
"W'y don't yer say five bob,an'be done with it?"said Jonah.
"But it ain't five bob;it's only four an'eleven,"insisted Ada,annoyed at his stupidity.
"An'I suppose it 'ud be dear at five bob?"sneered Jonah.
"Any fool could tell yer that,"snapped Ada.
Jonah included the whole feminine world in a shrug of the shoulders,and turned impatiently on his heel.But Ada was not to be torn away.
She ran her eye over the stock,marvelling at the cheapness of everything.
Jonah,finding nothing better to do,lit a cigarette,and turned a contemptuous eye on the bales of calico,cheap prints,and flimsy lace displayed.Presently he began to study the tickets with extraordinary interest.They were all alike.The shillings in gigantic figures of red or black,and across the dividing line elevenpence three-farthings pencilled in strokes as modest as the shy violet.When Jonah reached Cardigan Street,he was preoccupied and silent,and sat on the veranda,smoking in the dark,long after Ada and her mother had gone to bed.
About one o'clock Mrs Yabsley,who was peacefully ironing shirts in her sleep,was awakened by a loud hammering on the door.She woke up,and instantly recognized what had happened.Ada had left the candle burning and had set the house on fire,as her mother had daily predicted for the last ten years.Then the hammering ceased.
"Are yez awake,Mum?"cried Jonah's voice.
"No,"said Mrs Yabsley firmly."'Ow did it 'appen?""'Appen wot?"cried Jonah roughly.
"'Ow did the 'ouse ketch fire?"said Mrs Yabsley,listening for the crackling.
"The 'ouse ain't a-fire,an'ye're talkin'in yer sleep.""Wot!"cried Mrs Yabsley,furiously,"yer wake me up out o'me sleep to tell me the 'ouse ain't a-fire.I'll land yer on the 'ead wi'me slipper,if yer don't go to bed.""I say,Mum,"entreated Jonah,"will yer gimme five quid on Monday,an ask no questions?"Mrs Yabsley's only answer was a snore.
But a week later the morning procession that trudged along Botany Road towards the city was astonished at the sight of a small shop,covered with huge calico signs displaying in staring red letters on a white ground the legend:
WHILE U WAIT.
Boots and Shoes Soled and Heeled.
GENTS,2/11;LADIES,1/11;CHILDS,1/6.
The huge red letters,thrown out like a defiance and a challenge,caused a sensation in the Road.The pedestrians stopped to read the signs,looked curiously at the shop,and went on their way.The passengers in the trams and buses craned their necks,anxious to read the gigantic advertisement before they were carried out of sight.A group of urchins,stationed at the door,distributed handbills to the curious,containing the same announcement in bold type.
Across the street hung Paasch's dingy sign from which the paint was peeling:
Repairs neatly executed GENTS,3/6;LADIES,2/6;CHILDS,1/9--the old prices sanctioned by usage,unchangeable and immovable as the laws of nature to Paasch and the trade on Botany Road.
The shop itself was transformed.On one side were half a dozen new chairs standing in a row on a strip of bright red carpet.Gay festoons of coloured tissue paper,the work of Mrs Yabsley's hands,stretched in ropes across the ceiling.The window had been cleared and at a bench facing the street Jonah and an assistant pegged and hammered as if for dear life.
Another,who bore a curious likeness to Chook,with his back to the street and a last on his knees,hammered with enthusiasm.A tremendous heap of old boots,waiting to be repaired,was thrown carelessly in front of the workers,who seemed too busy to notice the sensation they were creating.
The excitement increased when a customer,Waxy Collins by name,entered the shop,and,taking off his boots,sat down while they were repaired,reading the morning paper as coolly as if he were taking his turn at the barber's.The thing spread like the news of a murder,and through the day a group of idlers gathered,watching with intense relish the rapid movements of the workmen.Jonah had declared war.
Six weeks after he had opened the shop,Jonah found twelve of Mrs Yabsley's sovereigns between him and ignominious defeat.Then the tickets in the draper's window had given him an idea,and,like a general who throws his last battalion at the enemy,he had resolved to stake the remaining coins on the hazard.The calico signs,then a novelty,the fittings of the shop,and the wages for a skilful assistant,had swallowed six of his precious twelve pounds.With the remaining six he hoped to hold out for a fortnight.Then,unless the tide turned,he would throw up the sponge.Chook,amazed and delighted with the idea,had volunteered to disguise himself as a snob,and help to give the shop a busy look;and Waxy Collins jumped at the chance of getting his boots mended for the bare trouble of walking in and pretending to read the newspaper.
