Figures are the most shocking things in the world. The prettiest little squiggles of black — looked at in the right light, and yet consider the blow they can give you upon the heart. You return from a little careless holiday abroad, and turn over the page of a newspaper, and against the name of that distant, vague-conceived railway in mortgages upon which you have embarked the bulk of your capital, you see instead of the familiar, persistent 95-6 (varying at most to 93 ex. div.) this slightly richer arrangement of marks: 76 12-78 12.

It is like the opening of a pit just under your feet!

So, too, Mr. Polly’s happy sense of limitless resources was obliterated suddenly by a vision of this tracery:

“298”

instead of the

“350”

he had come to regard as the fixed symbol of his affluence.

It gave him a disagreeable feeling about the diaphragm, akin in a remote degree to the sensation he had when the perfidy of the red-haired schoolgirl became plain to him. It made his brow moist.

“Going down a vortex!” he whispered.

By a characteristic feat of subtraction he decided that he must have spent sixty-two pounds.

“Funererial baked meats,” he said, recalling possible items.

The happy dream in which he had been living of long warm days, of open roads, of limitless unchecked hours, of infinite time to look about him, vanished like a thing enchanted. He was suddenly back in the hard old economic world, that exacts work, that limits range, that discourages phrasing and dispels laughter. He saw Wood Street and its fearful suspenses yawning beneath his feet.

And also he had promised to marry Miriam, and on the whole rather wanted to.

He was distraught at supper. Afterwards, when Mrs. Johnson had gone to bed with a slight headache, he opened a conversation with Johnson.

“It’s about time, O’ Man, I saw about doing something,” he said. “Riding about and looking at shops, all very debonnairious, O’ Man, but it’s time I took one for keeps.”

“What did I tell you?” said Johnson.

“How do you think that corner shop of yours will figure out?” Mr. Polly asked.

“You’re really meaning it?”

“If it’s a practable proposition, O’ Man. Assuming it’s practable. What’s your idea of the figures?”

Johnson went to the chiffonier, got out a letter and tore off the back sheet. “Let’s figure it out,” he said with solemn satisfaction. “Let’s see the lowest you could do it on.”

He squared himself to the task, and Mr. Polly sat beside him like a pupil, watching the evolution of the grey, distasteful figures that were to dispose of his little hoard.

“What running expenses have we got to provide for?” said Johnson, wetting his pencil. “Let’s have them first. Rent? . . . ”

At the end of an hour of hideous speculations, Johnson decided: “It’s close. But you’ll have a chance.”

“M’m,” said Mr. Polly. “What more does a brave man want?”

“One thing you can do quite easily. I’ve asked about it.”

“What’s that, O’ Man?” said Mr. Polly.

“Take the shop without the house above it.”

“I suppose I might put my head in to mind it,” said Mr. Polly, “and get a job with my body.”

“Not exactly that. But I thought you’d save a lot if you stayed on here — being all alone as you are.”

“Never thought of that, O’ Man,” said Mr. Polly, and reflected silently upon the needlessness of Miriam.

“We were talking of eighty pounds for stock,” said Johnson. “Of course seventy-five is five pounds less, isn’t it? Not much else we can cut.”

“No,” said Mr. Polly.

“It’s very interesting, all this,” said Johnson, folding up the half sheet of paper and unfolding it. “I wish sometimes I had a business of my own instead of a fixed salary. You’ll have to keep books of course.”

“One wants to know where one is.”

“I should do it all by double entry,” said Johnson. “A little troublesome at first, but far the best in the end.”

“Lemme see that paper,” said Mr. Polly, and took it with the feeling of a man who takes a nauseating medicine, and scrutinised his cousin’s neat figures with listless eyes.

“Well,” said Johnson, rising and stretching. “Bed! Better sleep on it, O’ Man.”

“Right O,” said Mr. Polly without moving, but indeed he could as well have slept upon a bed of thorns.

He had a dreadful night. It was like the end of the annu............