Herr Gottfried dealt with the customers that morning and Peter stood nervously watching him. The customers were not very many--an old lady who “wanted something to read” caused many volumes to be laid before her, and finally left the shop without buying anything--a young man with spectacles purchased some tattered science and a clergyman some Sermons. A thin and very hungry looking man entered, clutching a badly-tied paper parcel. These were books he wanted to sell. They were obviously treasured possessions because he touched them, when they were laid upon the counter, with a loving hand. “They are very good books,” he said plaintively. “Three shillings,” said Herr Gottfried. The hungry man sighed. “Five shillings,” he said, “they are worth more.” “Three shillings for the lot,” said Herr Gottfried. “It is very little,” said the hungry man, but he took the money and went out sadly. Once their came a magnificent gentleman--that is, he looked magnificent in the distance away from the gas jet. He was tall with a high hat, a fine moustache and a tailcoat; he had melancholy eyes and a languid air. Peter was sorry to observe on a closer view that his tail-coat was frayed and his collar not very clean. He gave Herr Gottfried a languid bow and passed through the shop into the room beyond. “Guten Tag, Herr Signer,” said Herr Gottfried with deference, but the gentleman had already disappeared. Then, after a time, one o'clock struck and Peter understood that if he would place himself under Herr Gottfried's protection he should be led to an establishment where for a small sum meat-pies were to be had... all this very novel and delightful, and Peter laid down “The Experiences of the Reverend James Scott,” which were not at present very thrilling and followed his guide into the street. Peter was still wondering where Herr Gottfried had put his blue slippers and whence had come the large flat boots and the brown and faded squash hat when he was suddenly in a little dark street with the houses hanging forward as though they were listening and any number of clothes dangling from the window sills and waving about as though their owners were still inside them and kicking vigorously. Although the street was dark it was full of noise, and a blaze of light at the other end of it proclaimed more civilised quarters (Trafalgar Square in fact) at no great distance. “Gerade aus,” said Herr Gottfried and pushed open a swinging door. Peter followed him into the most amazing babel of voices, a confusion and a roaring, an atmosphere thick with smoke and steam and a scent in the air as though ten thousand meat-pies were cooking there before his eyes. By the door a neat stout little woman, hung all over with lockets and medallions as though she were wearing all the prizes that the famous meat-pies had ever won, was sitting in a little box with a glass front to it. “Bon jour, Monsieur Hanz.” “Tag, Meine Gnädige Frau.”