"These foreigners are such a d----d lazy lot," he would say; "I hate them!" and there was all the righteous indignation in his tones of the hard-worked proletariat whose feelings are harrowed by the spectacle of unrighteous ease. Short had a habit of making himself offensive to every one, but for some mysterious reason no one ever took him to task over it. It was impossible to take Short seriously, or to treat him as you would any other human being. When he was insolent people shrugged their shoulders and laughed, when he told lies they did not deign to investigate the truth, and thus in a despised and unostentatious way--for he was not ambitious of _réclame_--he was able to do as much mischief and set as many falsehoods afloat as a viciously-inclined person with much time on his hands well can. His physical and mental inferiority was his stock-in-trade, and he relied on it as a safeguard against reprisals. After a prolonged period of fog the real severity of the winter set in towards the end of January. One February morning, after all manner of mishaps and discomfort, and several falls along the slippery icy pavement, I arrived at the office of the _Tocsin_. The first thing that struck my eye on approaching was the unusual appearance of the Wattles's greengrocery shop. The shutters were closed, the doors still unopened. "What has happened?" I inquired of a crony standing outside the neighbouring pub. "Surely no one is dead?" "Lor' bless yer, no, lydy," answered the old lady, quite unperturbed, "yesterday was the hanniversary of old Wattles's wedding-day, and they've been keepin' it up as usual. That's all." I was about to pass on without further comment when my attention was again arrested by the sound of blows and scuffling inside the shop, mingled with loud oaths in the familiar voice of my landlady, and hoarse protests and entreaties in a masculine voice. "But surely," I urged, turning once more to my previous informant, "there is something wrong. What is all that noise?" as cries of "Murder! murder!" greeted my ear. "Why, I only just told you, my dear," she responded, still quite unmoved, "they've been celebratin' their silver weddin' or somethin' of the sort. It's the same every year. They both gets roarin' drunk, and then Mrs. Wattles closes the shop next mornin' so as to give 'im a jolly good 'idin'. You see, these hanniversaries make 'er think of all she's 'ad to put up with since she married, and that makes things a bit rough on poor old Jim." Perceiving my sympathy to be wasted I proceeded, and on entering the office of the _Tocsin_ I found that here, too, something unusual was going on.