Ships Company | Page 5

it is."
"Too much," said Bert, with unwonted consideration.
"I wish he'd leave me alone," said Gladys. "My food don't do me no
good when he's watching every mouthful I eat."
Of murmurings such as these Mr. Jobson heard nothing, and in view of
the great improvement in his dress and manners, a strong resolution
was passed to avoid the faintest appearance of discontent. Even when,
satisfied with his own appearance, he set to work to improve that of
Mrs. Jobson, that admirable woman made no complaint. Hitherto the
brightness of her attire and the size of her hats had been held to atone
for her lack of figure and the roomy comfort of her boots, but Mr.
Jobson, infected with new ideas, refused to listen to such sophistry. He
went shopping with Dorothy; and the Sunday after, when Mrs. Jobson
went for an airing with him, she walked in boots with heels two inches
high and toes that ended in a point. A waist that had disappeared some
years before was recaptured and placed in durance vile; and a hat which
called for a new style of hair-dressing completed the effect.

"You look splendid, ma!" said Gladys, as she watched their departure.
"Splendid!"
"I don't feel splendid," sighed Mrs. Jobson to her husband. "These 'ere
boots feel red-'ot."
"Your usual size," said Mr. Jobson, looking across the road.
"And the clothes seem just a teeny-weeny bit tight, p'r'aps," continued
his wife.
Mr. Jobson regarded her critically. "P'r'aps they might have been let out
a quarter of an inch," he: said, thoughtfully. "They're the best fit you've
'ad for a long time, mother. I only 'ope the gals'll 'ave such good
figgers."
His wife smiled faintly, but, with little breath for conversation, walked
on for some time in silence. A growing redness of face testified to her
distress.
"I--I feel awful," she said at last, pressing her hand to her side.
"Awful."
"You'll soon get used to it," said Mr. Jobson, gently. "Look at me! I felt
like you do at first, and now I wouldn't go back to old clothes--and
comfort--for anything. You'll get to love them boots.
"If I could only take 'em off I should love 'em better," said his wife,
panting; "and I can't breathe properly--I can't breathe."
"You look ripping, mother," said her husband, simply.
His wife essayed another smile, but failed. She set her lips together and
plodded on, Mr. Jobson chatting cheerily and taking no notice of the
fact that she kept lurching against him. Two miles from home she
stopped and eyed him fixedly.
"If I don't get these boots off, Alf, I shall be a 'elpless cripple for the
rest of my days," she murmured. "My ankle's gone over three times."

"But you can't take 'em off here," said Mr. Jobson, hastily. "Think 'ow
it would look."
"I must 'ave a cab or something," said his wife, hysterically. "If I don't
get 'em off soon I shall scream."
She leaned against the iron palings of a house for support, while Mr.
Jobson, standing on the kerb, looked up and down the road for a cab. A
four-wheeler appeared just in time to prevent the scandal--of Mrs.
Jobson removing her boots in the street.
"Thank goodness," she gasped, as she climbed in. "Never mind about
untying 'em, Alf; cut the laces and get 'em off quick."
They drove home with the boots standing side by side on the seat in
front of them. Mr. Jobson got out first and knocked at the door, and as
soon as it opened Mrs. Jobson pattered across the intervening space
with the boots dangling from her hand. She had nearly reached the door
when Mr. Foley, who had a diabolical habit of always being on hand
when he was least wanted, appeared suddenly from the offside of the
cab.
"Been paddlin'?" he inquired.
Mrs. Jobson, safe in her doorway, drew herself up and, holding the
boots behind her, surveyed him with a stare of high-bred disdain.
"Been paddlin'?" he inquired
"I see you going down the road in 'em," said the unabashed Mr. Foley,
"and I says to myself, I says, 'Pride'll bear a pinch, but she's going too
far. If she thinks that she can squeedge those little tootsywootsies of
'ers into them boo--'"
The door slammed violently and left him exchanging grins with Mr.
Jobson.
"How's the 'at?" he inquired.

Mr. Jobson winked. "Bet you a level 'arf-dollar I ain't wearing it next
Sunday," he said, in a hoarse whisper.
Mr. Foley edged away.
"Not good enough," he said, shaking his head. "I've had a good many
bets with you first and last, Alf, but I can't remember as I ever won one
yet. So long."

FRIENDS IN NEED

R. Joseph Gibbs finished his half-pint