He stood looking vacantly up the street until the gathering excitement of his neighbours aroused new feelings. Vanity stirred within him, and leaning casually against the door-post he yawned and looked at the chimney-pots opposite. A neighbour in a pair of corduroy trousers, supported by one brace worn diagonally, shambled across the road. "What's up?" he inquired, with a jerk of the thumb in the direction of Mr. Vickers's vanished family. "Up?" repeated Mr. Vickers, with an air of languid surprise. "Somebody died and left you a fortin?" inquired the other. "Not as I knows of," replied Mr. Vickers, staring. "Why?" "_Why?_" exclaimed the other. "Why, new clothes all over. I never see such a turn-out." Mr. Vickers regarded him with an air of lofty disdain. "Kids must 'ave new clothes sometimes, I s'pose?" he said, slowly. "You wouldn't 'ave 'em going about of a Sunday in a ragged shirt and a pair of trowsis, would you?" The shaft passed harmlessly. "Why not?" said the other. "They gin'rally do." Mr. Vickers's denial died away on his lips. In twos and threes his neighbours had drawn gradually near and now stood by listening expectantly. The idea of a fortune was common to all of them, and they were anxious for particulars. [Illustration: "THEY WERE ANXIOUS FOR PARTICULARS."] "Some people have all the luck," said a stout matron. "I've 'ad thirteen and buried seven, and never 'ad so much as a chiney tea-pot left me. One thing is, I never could make up to people for the sake of what I could get out of them. I couldn't not if I tried. I must speak my mind free and independent." "Ah! that's how you get yourself disliked," said another lady, shaking her head sympathetically. "Disliked?" said the stout matron, turning on her fiercely. "What d'ye mean? You don't know what you're talking about. Who's getting themselves disliked?" "A lot o' good a chiney tea-pot would be to you," said the other, with a ready change of front, "or any other kind o' tea-pot." Surprise and indignation deprived the stout matron of utterance. "Or a milk-jug either," pursued her opponent, following up her advantage. "Or a coffee-pot, or----" The stout matron advanced upon her, and her mien was so terrible that the other, retreating to her house, slammed the door behind her and continued the discussion from a first-floor window. Mint Street, with the conviction that Mr. Vickers's tidings could wait, swarmed across the road to listen. Mr. Vickers himself listened for a little while to such fragments as came his way, and then, going indoors, sat down amid the remains of his breakfast to endeavour to solve the mystery of the new clothes.