loudest she came to the shop door and looked with her pale grey eyes
at the ridiculous mob of lasses in tam-o-shanters and youths half
buried in caps. And she imposed a silence. They edged away.
Meanwhile Miss Pinnegar pursued the sober and even tenor of her own
way. Whilst James lashed out, to use the local phrase, in robes and
"suits," Miss Pinnegar steadily ground away, producing strong,
indestructible shirts and singlets for the colliers, sound,
serviceable aprons for the colliers' wives, good print dresses for
servants, and so on. She executed no flights of fancy. She had her
goods made to suit her people. And so, underneath the foam and froth
of James' creative adventure flowed a slow but steady stream of
output and income. The women of Woodhouse came at last to _depend_
on Miss Pinnegar. Growing lads in the pit reduce their garments to
shreds with amazing expedition. "I'll go to Miss Pinnegar for thy
shirts this time, my lad," said the harassed mothers, "and see if
_they'll_ stand thee." It was almost like a threat. But it served
Manchester House.
James bought very little stock in these days: just remnants and
pieces for his immortal robes. It was Miss Pinnegar who saw the
travellers and ordered the unions and calicoes and grey flannel.
James hovered round and said the last word, of course. But what was
his last word but an echo of Miss Pinnegar's penultimate! He was not
interested in unions and twills.
His own stock remained on hand. Time, like a slow whirlpool
churned it over into sight and out of sight, like a mass of dead
sea-weed in a backwash. There was a regular series of sales
fortnightly. The display of "creations" fell off. The new
entertainment was the Friday-night's sale. James would attack some
portion of his stock, make a wild jumble of it, spend a delirious
Wednesday and Thursday marking down, and then open on Friday
afternoon. In the evening there was a crush. A good moiré underskirt
for one-and-eleven-three was not to be neglected, and a handsome
string-lace collarette for six-three would iron out and be worth at
least three-and-six. That was how it went: it would nearly all of
it iron out into something really nice, poor James' crumpled stock.
His fine, semi-transparent face flushed pink, his eyes flashed as he
took in the sixpences and handed back knots of tape or packets of
pins for the notorious farthings. What matter if the farthing change
had originally cost him a halfpenny! His shop was crowded with women
peeping and pawing and turning things over and commenting in loud,
unfeeling tones. For there were still many comic items. Once, for
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