Here, at Hammersmith, Ben Short transacted some very satisfactory business in King Street. It was early; his “clients” had just finished their breakfasts, their shops had been but a few minutes opened, and they had leisure to attend to his persuasive arguments. He was a favourite wherever he went, and as he carried exactly the kind of goods to attract, he quickly booked orders and was free to proceed. On board once more, at good speed Ben was rolled along Fulham Road, leaving on the right the big convent jealously guarded by high walls, which made Ben fall to wondering how any sane young woman could voluntarily cut herself off from a world about which she probably knew practically nothing. On went the tram, past the big buildings of the Fulham Workhouse, past the entrance to Fulham Palace and the Bishop’s Park, along the widened High Street of Fulham, over Putney Bridge, and by way of Putney Bridge Road and West Hill, Wandsworth (a new route), to Lower Tooting--altogether a pleasant trip at that time of the year, for gardens, at which he critically and eagerly gazed, greeted Ben in every direction. Wasting no time, Short called upon all the most likely customers, and again he was in luck, for whether they wanted watches and jewellery or not, orders were booked. Now the energetic little man had to get to the “Elephant and Castle.” Along the Balham Hill Road, with its pleasant shops and lively pedestrians, was plain sailing enough, past umbrageous Clapham Common on the left, edged with sedate and comfortable mansions recalling the old days when prosperous Evangelicism dwelt exclusively in Clapham; then by way of Clapham Road and Kennington Park Road to the far-famed “Elephant and Castle.” Here a less sharp-witted man than Short might well be bewildered by the wonderful concentration of tram lines converging from Walworth Road, New Kent Road, Newington Causeway, London Road, St. George’s Road, and the road he had come by. Here, if anywhere, as at the Mansion House, well-arranged passenger subways are needed. Our “commercial” did much business round about, for it was one of his best districts for cheap goods, and then he thought it was time to refresh the inner man. In a neighbouring cool, clean little crib--“a close borough of his own,” he called it--he rested, and made intimate acquaintance with a noble piece of silver-side, some crisp lettuces, and any amount of piccalilli--he was a lover of cold meat and pickles--but, in accordance with a rule he never broke in business hours, he restricted himself to coffee as a beverage.