“Good day, sah!” said the old negro, in a voice of almost incredible richness. “What's the name of this place?” asked Bert. “Tanooda, sah!” said the negro. “Thenks!” said Bert. “Thank YOU, sah!” said the negro, overwhelmingly. Bert came to houses of the same detached, unwalled, wooden type, but adorned now with enamelled advertisements partly in English and partly in Esperanto. Then he came to what he concluded was a grocer's shop. It was the first house that professed the hospitality of an open door, and from within came a strangely familiar sound. “Gaw!” he said searching in his pockets. “Why! I 'aven't wanted money for free weeks! I wonder if I--Grubb 'ad most of it. Ah!” He produced a handful of coins and regarded it; three pennies, sixpence, and a shilling. “That's all right,” he said, forgetting a very obvious consideration. He approached the door, and as he did so a compactly built, grey-faced man in shirt sleeves appeared in it and scrutinised him and his cudgel. “Mornin',” said Bert. “Can I get anything to eat 'r drink in this shop?” The man in the door replied, thank Heaven, in clear, good American. “This, sir, is not A shop, it is A store.” “Oh!” said Bert, and then, “Well, can I get anything to eat?” “You can,” said the American in a tone of confident encouragement, and led the way inside. The shop seemed to him by his Bun Hill standards extremely roomy, well lit, and unencumbered. There was a long counter to the left of him, with drawers and miscellaneous commodities ranged behind it, a number of chairs, several tables, and two spittoons to the right, various barrels, cheeses, and bacon up the vista, and beyond, a large archway leading to more space. A little group of men was assembled round one of the tables, and a woman of perhaps five-and-thirty leant with her elbows on the counter. All the men were armed with rifles, and the barrel of a gun peeped above the counter. They were all listening idly, inattentively, to a cheap, metallic-toned gramophone that occupied a table near at hand. From its brazen throat came words that gave Bert a qualm of homesickness, that brought back in his memory a sunlit beach, a group of children, red-painted bicycles, Grubb, and an approaching balloon:-- “Ting-a-ling-a-ting-a-ling-a-ting-a ling-a-tang... What Price Hair-pins Now?” A heavy-necked man in a straw hat, who was chewing something, stopped the machine with a touch, and they all turned their eyes on Bert. And all their eyes were tired eyes. “Can we give this gentleman anything to eat, mother, or can we not?” said the proprietor. “He kin have what he likes?” said the woman at the counter, without moving, “right up from a cracker to a square meal.” She struggled with a yawn, after the manner of one who has been up all night. “I want a meal,” said Bert, “but I 'aven't very much money. I don' want to give mor'n a shillin'.” “Mor'n a WHAT?” said the proprietor, sharply.