The shop in Harbour Lane had been a greengrocer’s, a barber’s, a fried-fishmonger’s, and a tripe-seller’s.  But chiefly it had been shut up, as it was now.  Nobody had ever come into it with much money, it is true, but all had gone out of it with less than they brought.  It was said, indeed, that the greengrocer had gone out with nothing but the clothes he wore; but as he went no farther than the end of the street, where he drowned himself from a swing bridge, he needed no more, nor even so much.  Mr. Dunkin, the landlord, had bought the place at a low price, as was his way in buying things; but he got very little out of his investment, which was not his way at all.  It was a novelty that surprised and irritated Mr. Dunkin.  He was a substantial tradesman, who had long relinquished counter work, for there were a dozen assistants in the two departments of his chief shop, eight for grocery and butter, and four for oil and saucepans, paint and mousetraps; and there were half a dozen branches, some in the one trade and some in the other, scattered about in as many neighbouring parishes.  He was a large man, of vast p. 76sympathy.  The tone of his voice, the grasp of his wide, pulpy hand, told of infinite tenderness toward the sorrows and sins of the world.  Even in the early days when he had but one shop (a little one) and no shopman, he would weigh out a pound of treacle with so melting a benignity that the treacle seemed balm of Gilead, and a bounteous gift at the price.  He would drive a bargain in a voice of yearning beneficence that left the other party ashamed of his own self-seeking, as well as something the poorer by the deal.  It was a voice wherein a purr had a large part—a purr that was hoarse yet soothing, and eloquent of compassion; so that no man was so happy but a talk with Mr. Dunkin would persuade him that the lot was hard indeed, that entitled him to such a wealth of sympathy.  It was a wealth that Mr. Dunkin squandered with no restraint but this, that it carried no other sort of wealth with it.

On the whole, Nan May had counted herself fortunate in falling in with Mr. Dunkin.  For when, in his fatherly solicitude, he discovered that she had a little money in hand, he undertook to supply her with stock, and to give her certain hints in the mystery of chandlery.  He, also, felt no cause for complaint: for he had hoped for a tenant merely, and here was tenant and customer in one.  More, she was a widow, knowing nothing of trade, so that it might be possible to sell her what others would not buy, at a little extra profit.  As to p. 77rent, moreover, he was doing well.  For on the day the deposit was paid, Mrs. May had found little choice among vacant shops, and this was in a situation to suit her plans as to Johnny and his trade; and as she was tired and nervous, full of plain anxiety, sympathetic Mr. Dunkin saw his chance of trying for an extra shilling a week, and got it.  And Nan May was left to pay for what painting and cleaning the place might need.  It needed a good deal, as Mr. Dunkin had ruefully observed two days before, in expectation of a decorator’s bill if ever a tenant came.
 

And now Nan May addressed herself to the work.  First, the house must be cleaned; the paint could be considered after.  She had swept one room into a habitable state on her last day in town, and here her little store of furniture was stacked.  Then, her sleeves and her skirt turned back, and a duster over her head, she assailed walls and ceilings with a broom, and after these the floors.  So far Johnny helped, but when scrubbing began he hindered.  So it was that for a day or so, until it was time for him to help with the windows, he had leisure wherein to make himself acquainted with the neighbourhood.

It was a neighbourhood with a flavour distinct from that of the districts about it.  There the flat rows of six-roomed cottages, characterless all, stretched p. 78everywhere, rank behind rank, in masses unbroken except by the busier thoroughfares of shops.  Here each little house asserted its individuality by diversity of paint as much as by diversity of shape.  It was, indeed, the last stronghold of the shipwrights and mast-makers, fallen from their high estate since the invasion of iron ships and northern competition.  In fact, Shipwrights’ Row was the name of a short rank of cottages close by, with gardens in front, each with its mast and flag complete.  In other places, where the back-yards were very small, the flagstaff and stays were apt to take to their use the whole space: the pole rising from the exact centre, and a stay taking its purchase from each extreme corner, so that anybody essaying a circuit must perform it with many sudden obeisances.  The little streets had an air of cleanliness all their own, largely due to the fresh paint that embellished whatsoever there was an excuse for painting.  Many front-doors were reached by two stone steps, always well whitened; and whether there were steps or not, the flagstones before each threshold were distinguished by a whited semicircle five feet in diameter.  Noting this curious fact as he tramped along one such street, Johnny was startled by an angry voice close at his elbow, a voice so very sudden and irate that he jumped aside ere he looked for the source.  A red-faced woman knelt within a door.

“Idle young faggit!” she said.  “Stompin’ yer muddy p. 79boots all over my clean step!”  And she made so vigorous a grasp at a broom that Johnny went five yards at a gallop.

Now truly there was no step of any sort to the house.  And Johnny had but crossed the semicircle because he conceived the footpath to be public property, and because it was narrow.  But he learnt, afterwards, that the semicircle was a sacred institution of the place, in as high regard among the women as its fellow-fetish, the flagstaff, was among the men; also that none but grown people—and those of low habits or in drink—dared trespass on it; and that it was always called “the step.”  He learnt much, too, in the matter of paint.  Every male inhabitant of Harbour Lane, Shipwrights’ Row, and the neighbouring streets, carried, in his leisure moments, a pipe, a pot of paint, and a brush.  He puffed comfortably at the pipe, and stumped about his back (or front) garden with the paint-pot in one hand and the brush in the other, “touching-up” whatever paint would stick to.  Rails, posts, water-butts, dustbins, clothes-posts, all were treated, not because they needed it (for they were scarce dry from the last coat), but because there was the paint, and there was the brush, and there was the leisure; and this was the only way to use all three.  So that most things about the gardens took an interesting variety of tints in the run of the year, since it was rarely the case that the same p. 80colour was used twice in succession.  When all wooden surfaces were covered, it was customary to take a turn at window-sills, rain-water pipes, and the stones or oyster-shells that bordered the little flower-beds; and when nothing else was left, then the paint-pot and the brush and the pipe were conveyed to the front, and the front-door, which had been green, became royal blue, or flaming salmon; as did the railings, if there were any, and the window-frames.  Two things alone were not subject to such changes of complexion: the flagstaff and the brick pavings.  For it was a law immutable that the flagstaffs should be speckless white, and the bricks a cheerful vermilion; this last a colour frequently renewed, because of nailed boots, but done in good oil paint, because of wet weather.  Everything else took the range of the rainbow, and something beyond; so that it was possible, in those houses where two families lived, to tell at a glance whether the upstairs family were on terms o............