At the end of a week Long Hicks stood astounded at his own performances. At the end of a year he was still astonished, and proud inordinately; and till the end of his life he will never forget the smallest particular of that week’s exploits. The policeman who came with a warrant for Butson, the young man from Mr. Dunkin, who came about the stock, the other young man that came the next time—he polished them all off, and half a dozen others, in the most dashing and businesslike manner. He found a new shop—found a score of shops, in fact, so that Nan May was fain to rouse herself and choose, lest some hopeless sepulchre of trade were rented without her knowledge. And this was good, for it gave her work to do and to think of, and once set going, she buckled to her task with all her old energy, and a world of riper experience. The shop was not so fortunately placed as that at Harbour Lane, and trade was never quite so good as it had been there when at its best. More, its place was in a dingy street, out of sight of the river and the ships. But it was a fairly busy thoroughfare, and things could be sold there, which was the main consideration. And it was Hicks’s triumph to stock this shop with the stock from Harbour Lane—conveyed secretly by night, on a truck, with many chucklings, after cunning putting-off of Mr. Dunkin. The tale whereof he would tell ever after with bashful glee, together with the tale of the sad emptiness and disorganisation of Mr. Dunkin’s new branch at its opening on Monday morning. And Uncle Isaac (who found his niece’s new shop ere long) assured the listener by frequent proclamation, that Mr. Hicks was a gentleman of vast business ability, and a genius at enterprise.

“Yus, a genius, that’s what I say, Mr. Cottam—a genius of uncommon talent.” It was a wet afternoon, when Cottam and Hicks had taken ten minutes’ shelter in the round-house by the quay-side: and presently were joined by Uncle Isaac, on his way across from the docks.

Mr. Cottam grunted. He had met Uncle Isaac twice before.

“Lord!” Uncle Isaac went on, gazing at the uneasy Hicks with steadfast admiration, “Lord! If ’e was on’y ambitious’ ’e might be anythink! What a ornament ’e ’d be to a Diplomatic Corpse! Talk about Enterprise! Why at Enterprise an’ any sort o’ circumventions ’e’s—’e’s—why there, as I alwis say, ’e might be Ambashador to ’er Majesty’s possessions!”The shower flagged, and men came out on the quays. Mr. Cottam rose from the coil he had been sitting on, took his gaze out of space, and fixed it on the wall over Uncle Isaac’s head. “Mr. Mundy!” he trumpeted, in the manner of a man beginning a speech to an expectant multitude; raising his forefinger to his shoulder and lowering it till it rested on Uncle Isaac’s chest; “Mr. Mundy!”

Then he paused, and Uncle Isaac said, “Yus, Mr. Cottam.”

The pause endured and grew impressive; till at last the foreman’s face relaxed, his gaze descended till it met Uncle Isaac’s, and he chuckled aloud, stabbing him playfully with the forefinger. “Why—what a windy ol’ kidder you are!” said Mr. Cottam; and stamped off along the quay, croaking and chuckling all over.