“Let’s come.” And when Johnny descended, the long man, with one more glance about the street, went up three steps at a time and laid the paint on rapidly, many feet at a sweep. He came down and shifted the steps very easily with one hand—and they were heavy steps—went up again, and in three minutes carried the paint to the very end of the cornice. Then he came down, with a sheepish smile at Johnny’s thanks, and shambled as far as next door, where he let himself in with a latch-key. And on Friday, at dinner-time, perceiving Johnny’s progress from his window on the upper floor—he was a lodger, it seemed—he came stealthily down and gave the cornice another coat. * * * * * On Saturday morning the shop was opened in form, though Johnny’s painting was not finished till dusk. Very little happened. A few children stopped on their way, and stared in at the door. The first customer was a boy from among these, who came in to beg a piece of string; and infested Harbour Lane for the rest of the day, swinging a dead rat on the end of it. Hours passed, and Nan May’s spirits fell steadily. A few pounds, a very few—they could scarce be made to last three weeks—was all her reserve, and most of her scanty stock was perishable. If it spoiled it could never be replaced, and unless people bought it, spoil it must. What more could she do? Industry, determination, and all the rest were well enough, but when all was said and done, nothing could make people come and buy. Near noon the second customer came—a little girl this time. She wanted a bottle of ink for a halfpenny. There were half-a dozen little bottles of ink in a row in the window; but the price was a penny, so the little girl went away. It was a dull dinner that day. Bessy invented ingenious conjectures to account for the lack of trade, and prophesied a change in the afternoon, or the evening, or perhaps next week, or at latest the week after. Her mother could not understand. Customers came to other shops; why not to this one? She had seen nothing of Uncle Isaac since she had come to Harbour Lane, though he knew where to find her. She had hoped he would lend a hand with the painting, or with the display of the stock; but no doubt he had been too busy. True, Johnny thought he had seen him once from the steps, some way down the street, but that must have been a mistake; for Uncle Isaac would not have come so near them without calling, nor would he have bolted instantly round the nearest corner at sight of the boy and his work, as Johnny had fancied he had.