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 4 in 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.