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
