his Blooming Window."

What window?"

What he said."

Polly remembered.

He went on with his collar boxes with his eye on his senior,

Mansfield. Mansfield was presently called away to the counting house,

and instantly Polly shot out by the street door, and made a rapid

transit along the street front past the Manchester window, and so into

the silkroom door. He could not linger long, but he gathered joy, a

swift and fearful joy, from his brief inspection of Parsons'

unconscious back. Parsons had his tail coat off and was working with

vigour; his habit of pulling his waistcoat straps to the utmost

brought out all the agreeable promise of corpulence in his youthful

frame. He was blowing excitedly and running his fingers through his

hair, and then moving with all the swift eagerness of a man inspired.

All about his feet and knees were scarlet blankets, not folded, not

formally unfolded, but--the only phrase is--shied about. And a great

bar sinister of roller towelling stretched across the front of the

window on which was a ticket, and the ticket said in bold black

letters: "LOOK!"

So soon as Mr. Polly got into the silk department and met Platt he

The History of Mr Polly