The red paint-pot, and a blue one from the same quarter, together with a yellow one from the neighbours on the other side, a white one from an old lighterman in the house behind, and a suitable collection of brushes subscribed by all three, were Johnny’s constant companions till the end of that weary week. The shop-shutters grew to be red, with a blue border. The window-frames were yellow, the wall beneath was white, so was the cornice above; and the door and the door-posts were red altogether, because the red paint went farthest, and the red pot had been fullest to begin with. Not only did the length of the job work off Johnny’s first enthusiasm, but its publicity embarrassed him. Perched conspicuously on a step-ladder, painting a shop in such stirring colours as these, he was the cynosure of all wayfaring folk, the target of whatever jibes their wits might compass. Three out of four warned him that the paint was laid on wrong side out. Some, in unkindly allusion to certain chance splashes, reminded him that he hadn’t half painted the window-panes; and facetious boys, in piteous pantomime, affected to be reduced to instant blindness by sudden knowledge of Johnny’s brilliant performance. But he was most discomforted by those who merely stood and stared, invisible behind him. If only he could have seen them it would not have been so bad; the oppressive consciousness that some contemptuous grown man behind and below—possibly a painter by trade—was narrowly observing every stroke of the brush, shook his nerve and enfeebled his execution. Most of these earnest spectators seemed to have no pressing business of their own, and their inspections were prolonged. One critic found speech to remark, as he turned to go his way: “Well, you are makin’ a bloomin’ mess up there!” But most, as if at a loss for words by mere amazement, sheered off with: “Well, blimy!” It was discouraging to find that all these people could have done it so much better, and, long before the job was finished, Johnny was sore depressed and very humble, as well as tired. Only one of all his witnesses offered help, and he was a surprising person: very tall, very thin, and very sooty from work; with splay feet, sloping shoulders, a long face of exceeding diffidence, and long arms, which seemed to swing and flap irresponsibly with the skirts of his long overcoat, and to be a subject of mute apology. He saw Johnny tip-toeing at the very top of the steps, making a bad shift to reach the cornice. He stopped, looked about him, and then went on a step or two; stopped again, and came back, with a timorous glance at the shop window; and when Johnny turned and looked, he said, in a voice scarce above a whisper: “Can’tcher reach it?”

“Not very well.”

“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.

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.

Here was a profit of sixpence at a stroke, unlikely as the chance was to recur; and it raised Nan’s spirits, unreasonably enough. Still, the bricklayer brought luck of a sort. For there were three more customers within the next hour, two bringing a halfpenny and one a penny. And in the evening five or six came, one spending as much as fourpence. This was better, perhaps, but poor enough. At ten that night Nan May reckoned her profit for the day at ninepence farthing, including the bricklayer’s sixpence; and she was sick with waiting and faint with fear. At half-past ten Uncle Isaac turned up.

“Ah hum,” he said; “bin paintin’. Might ’a’ laid it on a bit evener. There’s right ways o’ layin’ on paint, an’ there’s wrong ways, an’ one way ain’t the same as the other.” He raised his finger at Johnny instructively. “Far from it and contrairy, there’s a great difference.” Uncle Isaac paused, and no further amplification of his proposition occurring to him, he turned to Mrs. May. “’Ow’s trade?” he asked.Nan May shook her head sadly. “Very bad, uncle,” she said. “Hardly any at all.” And she felt nearer crying than ever since the funeral.

“Ah,” said Uncle Isaac, sitting on a packing case—empty, but intended to look full; “ah, what you want’s Enterprise. Enterprise; that’s what you want. What is it as stimilates trade an’ encourages prosperity to—to the latest improvements? Enterprise. Why is commercial opulentness took—at least, wafted—commercial opulentness wafted round the ’ole world consekince o’ what? Consekince o’ Enterprise.” Uncle Isaac tapped the counter with his forefinger and gazed solemnly in Nan May’s troubled face. “Consekince o’ Enterprise,” he repeated slowly, with another tap. Then he added briskly, with a glance at the inner door: “’Adjer supper?”

“No, uncle,” Nan answered. “I never thought of it. But, now you’re here, p’raps you’ll have a bit with us?”

“Ah—don’t mind if I do,” Uncle Isaac responded cheerfully. “That looks a nice little bit o’ bacon. Now a rasher auf that, an’ a hegg—got a hegg? O yus.” He saw a dozen in a basin. “A rasher auf that, an’ a hegg or two, ’ud be just the thing, with a drop o’ beer, wouldn’t it?”

Johnny fetched the beer, and Uncle Isaac had two rashers and four eggs; and he finished with a good solid piece of bread, and the first slice—a large one—out of the Dutch cheese from the counter. Nan May made no more than a pretence at eating a little bread and cheese.

When at last the jug was empty, and Uncle Isaac was full, he leaned back in his chair, and for some minutes exercised his lips in strange workings and twistings, with many incidental clicks and sucks and fizzes, while he benignantly contemplated the angle of the ceiling. When at last the display flagged, he brought his gaze gradually lower, till it rested on the diminished piece of bacon. “None so bad, that bacon,” he observed, putting his head aside with a critical regard. “Though p’raps rayther more of a breakfast specie than a supper.” He laid his head to the other side, as one anxious to be impartial. “Yus,” he went on thoughtfully, “more of a breakfast specie, as you might say.” Then after a pause, he added, with the air of one announcing a brilliant notion:—“I b’lieve—yus, I do b’lieve I’ll try a bit for breakfast to-morrer mornin’!”

“If you like, uncle,” Nan answered, a little faintly. “But—but-” timidly—“I was thinking p’raps it’ll make it look rather small to—to put on the counter.”

“So it would—so it would,” Uncle Isaac admitted frankly; and indeed the remaining piece was scarce of four rashers’ capacity. “Pity to cut it, as you say, Nan. Thanks—I’ll just wrop it up as it is. It’ll come in for Monday too; an’ that large bit o’ streaky’ll look a deal more nobler on the counter.”

Uncle Isaac’s visit swept away the day’s profits and a trifle more. But certainly, Uncle Isaac must not be offended now that things looked so gloomy ahead.

Bessy lay, and strained her wits far into the night, inventing comfortable theories and assurances, and exchanging them with her mother for others as hopeful. But in the morning each pillow had its wet spot.