George retired to his lodgings and stared at the framed advertisements, until he heard Dyer singing as he scoured the oven. The baker had been heard to declare that, if he had not known how to sing, he would have lost his senses long ago owing to the fightings and despondings which beset him. As a matter of fact he did not know how to sing, and those who listened were far more likely to lose their senses. George descended, assured Dyer it was a sin to bake bread with a voice like that, and went on to inquire affectionately after the business. "Going from bad to worse, sir," came the answer. Dyer was more than a pessimist; he was not content merely to look on the dark side of things, but associated himself with every bit of shadow he could find. "I don't see how that can be. People may give up meat, they may reduce their clothing; but they must have bread," replied George. "But they don't want nearly so much as they used to," said Dyer bitterly, "and they looks at anything nowadays avore they takes it. When I started business a healthy working man would finish off two loaves a day; and one's as much as he can manage now. The human race ain't improving, sir; 'tis dying out, I fancy. They used to be thankful vor anything I sold 'em, but now if they finds a button, or a beetle, or a dead mouse in the bread--and the dough will fall over on the floor sometimes--they sends the loaf back and asks vor another gratis. And the population is dwindling away to nought." "According to the census--" began George. "Don't you believe in censuses," cried the horrified Dyer. "That's dirty work, sir. Government has a hand in that. If me and you wur the only two left in Highfield parish, they'd put us down, sir, as four hundred souls." "You have a big sale for your cakes and doughnuts," George suggested. "I loses on 'em," said the dreary Dyer. "Then why do you make them?" "I suppose, sir, 'tis a habit I've got into." "My uncle used to say he had never tasted better cakes than yours." "Captain Drake was a gentleman, sir. His appetite belonged to the old school what be passed away vor ever. When he wur alive I could almost make both ends meet. But he gave me a nasty fright once, when he got telling about a tree what grows abroad--bread tree he called it. Told me volks planted it in their gardens, and picked the loaves off as they wanted 'em. 'Twas a great relief to my mind when he said the tree wouldn't be a commercial success in this country because the sun ain't hot enough to bake the bread. Talking about gentlemen, sir, what do you think of the Brocks?" "A bad lot," said George, wagging his head. "Sure enough! They make their own bread," whispered the baker. "I didn't know they went so far as that," replied the properly horrified George. "Some volks stick at nothing. But is it fair, sir? How be struggling tradesmen to escape ruin when volks break the law--" "It's not illegal."