The History of Mr. Polly

orting up collar boxes. "O' Ma

t wi

he s

reme

ft 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 th

t Platt he knew he had not lingered nearly long enough o

he said, and dived down to return by devious s

assumed to cover his adoption of that unusual route, came in and made for the staircas

he go through the shop to the Manchester d

to make a dive a

u going?" ask

of lucid explanation, and left him

le. Parsons really was extremely rich.

ts inscribed in blazing red letters: "Cosy Comfort at Cut Prices," and "Curl up and Cuddle below Cost." Regardless of the daylight he had turned up the electric light on that side of

wonderf

department, apparently on the verge of another plunge into the exterior wo

w when he saw the governor, Mr. Garvace, that is to say, the managing director of the Bazaar, walkin

hat looked like bunches of fingers. He was red-haired and ruddy, and after the custom of such complexions, hairs sprang from the tip of his nose. When

ad the countenance of Mr. Polly. He felt he

post hastily, dashed through the intervening departments and was in position

ou are doing with that window

of his background from the brass rail along the ceiling. Within, the Manchester shop window was cut off by a partition rather like the partition of an old-fashioned church pew from t

ad to repeat

it, Sir-on

f it," said

Mr. Garvace had to

expression, began to d

about. "Where's M

on app

inting his bunch of fingers at Parsons. "Tak

dvanced an

Parsons with an immense polit

," said Mr. Garv

shut the door with a clic

. "You can't dress it. If you want

d the genius in window dressin

o right in," said Mr

oor alone, Morris

stack of Bolton sheetings. He realised he was in

ut," said

aback. With this he smote at Morrison's head. Morrison's head ducked under the resounding impact, but he clung on and so did Mr. Garvace. The door came open, and then Mr. Garvace was staggering back, hand to head; his autocratic, his sacred baldness, smitten. Parsons was beyond all control-a strangeness, a marvel. Heaven knows how the artistic struggle had strained that richly endowed temperament. "Say I can't dress a window, you thunde

oice crying to no one in particular and everybody in general: "Get him

e head of Mr. Garvace, and his voice, muffled f

. As it was he simply upset the pile. It fell away from Polly, and he had an impression of somebody squeaking as it went down. It was the sort of impression one disregards. The collapse of the pile of goods just sufficed to end his subconscious efforts to get something to hit somebody with, and his whole attention focussed itself upon the struggle i

as overpo

nsfigured friend with a dark cut, that was not at present bleeding, o

yed me," said Parsons