The afternoon began no better than the morning. Nobody came but a child, who asked for sixpenn’orth of coppers, till about four. Then a hurried woman demanded a penn’orth of mixed pickles in a saucer, and grumbled at the quantity. She wouldn’t come into the shop again, at anyrate; a threat so discomposing (for was not the woman the first paying customer?) that for hours Nan May could not forgive herself for her illiberality; though indeed she gained but a weak fraction of a farthing by the transaction. Half an hour more went, and then there came a truly noble customer. He looked like a bricklayer, and he was far from sober: so far, indeed, that Johnny, on the steps, spying the mazy sinuosity of his approach, got a step lower and made ready to jump, in case of accidents. But the bricklayer, conscious of the presence of many ladders, steered wide into the roadway, and there stopped, fascinated by the brilliancy before him. Some swaying moments of consideration resolved him that this was a shop: and after many steps up the curb, and as many back in the gutter, he picked a labyrinthine path among the myriad ladders, narrowly missing the real one as he went, shouldered against the wet door-post, and stumbled toward the counter. Here he regarded a bladder of lard with thoughtful severity, till Nan May timorously asked what he wanted. “Shumm for kidsh,” he replied sternly, to the lard. “Shummforkidsh.” For some moments his scowl deepened; then he raised his hand and pointed. “W—wha’sha’?” he demanded. “Lard.” “Tharr’ll do.” He plunged his hand into his trousers pocket. “Tharr’ll do. ’Ow mush?” “Sevenpence halfpenny a pound.” “Orrigh’? Gi’s ’oldovit.” He reached an unsteady hand, imperilling bottles; but Nan May was quicker, and took the bladder of lard from its perch. “How much?” she asked. “’Ow much? Thash wha’ _I_ wan’ know. You give it ’ere, go on.” His voice rose disputatively, and he fell on the bladder of lard with both hands. “’Ow mush?” Nan reflected that it weighed more than three pounds, and that she had paid Mr. Dunkin eighteenpence for it. “Two shillings,” she said. “Two shillin’. Orrigh’,” and instantly what remained of the new customer’s week’s wages was scattered about the counter. Mrs. May took two shillings and returned the rest; which with some difficulty was thrust back into the pocket. And the new customer, after looking narrowly about him in search of his purchase, and at last discovering it under his arm, sallied forth with a wipe against the other door-post, and continued his winding way: a solemn and portentous bricklayer, with red paint on his shoulders and whiskers, and a bladder of lard that slipped sometimes forward and sometimes backward from his embrace, and was a deal of trouble to pick up again.