he got into the main street, the only street of shops, it was crowded. There seemed to have been some violent but quiet contest, a subdued fight, going on all the afternoon and evening: people struggling to buy things, to get things. Money was spent like water, there was a frenzy of money-spending. Though the necessities of life were in abundance, still the people struggled in frenzy for cheese, sweets, raisins, pork-stuff, even for flowers and holly, all of which were scarce, and for toys and knick-knacks, which were sold out. There was a wild grumbling, but a deep satisfaction in the fight, the struggle. The same fight and the same satisfaction in the fight was witnessed whenever a tram-car stopped, or when it heaved its way into sight. Then the struggle to mount on board became desperate and savage, but stimulating. Souls surcharged with hostility found now some outlet for their feelings.
As he came near the little market-place he bethought himself of the Christmas-tree candles. He did not intend to trouble himself. And yet, when he glanced in passing into the sweet-shop window, and saw it bare as a board, the very fact that he probably could not buy the things made him hesitate, and try.
“Have you got any Christmas-tree candles?” he asked as he entered the shop.
“How many do you want?”
“A dozen.”
“Can't let you have a dozen. You can have two boxes—four in a box—eight. Six-pence a box.”
“Got any holders?”
“Holders? Don't ask. Haven't seen one this year.”
“Got any toffee—?”
“Cough-drops—two-pence an ounce—nothing else left.”
“Give me four ounces.”
He watched her weighing them in the little brass scales.
“You've not got much of a Christmas show,” he said.
“Don't talk about Christmas, as far as sweets is concerned. They ought to have allowed us six times the quantity—there's plenty of sugar, why didn't they? We s'll have to enjoy ourselves with what we've got. We mean to, anyhow.”
“Ay,” he said.
“Time we had a bit of enjoyment, THIS Christmas. They ought to have made things more plentiful.”
“Yes,” he said, stuffing his package in his pocket.
CHAPTER II. ROYAL OAK
The war had killed the little market of the town. As he passed the market place on the brow, Aaron noticed that there were only two miserable stalls. But people crowded just the same. There was a loud sound of voices, men's voices. Men pressed round the doorways of the public-houses.
But he was going to a pub out of town. He descended the dark hill. A street-lamp here and there shed parsimonious light. In the bottoms, under the trees, it was very dark. But a lamp glimmered in front of the “Royal Oak.” This was a low white house sunk three steps below the highway. It was darkened, but sounded crowded.
Opening the door, Sisson found himself in the stone passage. Old Bob, carrying three cans, stopped to see who had entered—then went on into the public bar on the left. The bar itself was a sort of little window-sill on the right: the pub was a small one. In this window-opening stood the landlady, drawing and serving to her husband. Behind the bar was a tiny parlour or den, the landlady's preserve.
“Oh, it's you,” she said, bobbing down to look at the newcomer. None entered her bar-parlour unless invited.
“Come in,” said the landlady. There was a peculiar intonation in her complacent voice, which showed she had been expecting him, a little irritably.
He went across into her bar-parlour. It would not hold more than eight or ten people, all told—just the benches along the walls, the fire between—and two little round tables.
“I began to think you weren't coming,” said the landlady, bringing him a whiskey.
She was a large, stout, high-coloured woman, with a fine profile, probably Jewish. She had chestnut-coloured eyes, quick, intelligent. Her movements were large and slow, her voice laconic.
“I'm not so late, am I?” asked Aaron.
“Yes, you are late, I should think.” She Looked up at the little clock. “Close on nine.”
“I did some shopping,” said Aaron, with a quick smile.
“Did you indeed? That's news, I'm sure. May we ask what you bought?”
This he did not like. But he had to answer.
“Christmas-tree candles, and toffee.”
“For the little children? Well you've done well for once! I must say I recommend you. I didn't think you had so much in you.”
She sat herself down in her seat at the end of the bench, and took up her knitting. Aaron sat next to her. He poured water into his glass, and drank.
“It's warm in here,” he said, when he had swallowed the liquor.
“Yes, it is. You won't want to keep that thick good overcoat on,” replied the landlady.
“No,” he said, “I think I'll take it off.”
She watched him as he hung up his overcoat. He wore black clothes, as usual. As he reached up to the pegs, she could see the muscles of his shoulders, and the form of his legs. Her reddish-brown eyes seemed to burn, and her nose, that had a subtle, beautiful Hebraic curve, seemed to arch itself. She made a little place for him by herself, as he returned. She carried her head thrown back, with dauntless self-sufficiency.
There were several colliers in the room, talking quietly. They were the superior type all, favoured by the landlady, who loved intellectual discussion. Opposite, by the fire, sat a little, greenish man—evidently an oriental.
“You're very quiet all at once, Doctor,” said the landlady in her slow, laconic voice.
“Yes.—May I have another whiskey, please?” She rose at once, powerfully energetic.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. And she went to the bar.
“Well,” said the little Hindu doctor, “and how are things going now, with the men?”
“The same as ever,” said Aaron.
“Yes,” said the stately voice of the landlady. “And I'm afraid they will always be the same as ever. When will they learn wisdom?”
“But what do you call wisdom?” asked Sherardy, the Hindu. He spoke with a little, childish lisp.
“What do I call wisdom?” repeated the landlady. “Why all acting together for the common good. That is wisdom
