Mr. Richards eyed him across the counter; the other, almost quailing, asked whether the establishment included matches amongst its stores. A box being produced, he inquired how many it contained. Mr. Richards said he did not know. The lad, opening the box, remarked that it appeared to have been tampered with, and expressed a desire not to be swindled. The proprietor imperatively ordered him to go out of the shop, and went back to his meal. This had become cold; the circumstance that he himself was considerably heated did not compensate. “There’s another!” mentioned Harriet. A lamp-boy, bearing on his features evidence of occupation, wished to make an inquiry, and, accepting the reply, stayed to argue that tin-tacks were a necessity to many people at many times and should therefore be kept by those who desired to serve the public; he went on to give a brief lecture on the laws of supply and demand, and, this finished, seemed unwilling to leave without confessing something in the way of patronage, and Mr. Richards found himself called upon to give two halfpennies in exchange for a penny and to say “Thank you” to an individual whom he had not, in official days, condescended to notice. “You must put some brains into it,” counselled the boy, before going out of the doorway. “That’s your only chance. Competition’s very keen at the present time. And don’t forget civility. Civility goes a long way with a lot of people.” “Take your hand away from that new paint! I don’t want to identify customers by finger-marks.” “You won’t have any if you don’t treat ’em properly.” “Go back to the station,” roared Mr. Richards, “and give them features of yours a good wash!” “Used soap and water just before I came away.” “Then get them to turn the hose on you.” The boy tried to think of a retort, but none came. He made a face and went. That evening, at half-past six, saw the real start of business. In less than five minutes the shop filled with customers, all talking loudly, all demanding to be served at once, but, in spite of this, making no attempt to leave quickly. More than once in the flurry and bustle of taking money—it was the night of pay-day, and much change therefore required—he called upstairs to inquire whether Harriet’s young man had arrived; the last answer received was to the effect that the youth in question had been told not to come round that evening. “Who told you to say that?” “I thought it best, father.” He made an appeal to the customers for sympathy on the grounds that he had a fool for a daughter. They asked what else he had a right to expect.