MY OLD VILLAGE. 317 



in those days — that went behind that two-foot window, 

 goodness ! there was no end. Job used to chink them 

 in a pint pot sometimes before the company, to give them 

 an idea of his great hoards. He always tried to impress 

 people with his wealth, and would talk of a fifty-pound 

 contract as if it was nothing to him. Jumbles are eter- 

 nal, if nothing else is. I thought then there was not such 

 another shop as Job's in the universe. I have found 

 since that there is a Job shop in every village, and in 

 every street in every town — that is to say, a window for 

 jumbles and rubbish ; and if you don't know it, you may 

 be quite sure your children do, and spend many a sly 

 penny there. Be as rich as you may, and give them 

 gilded sweetmeats at home, still they will slip round to 

 the Job shop. 



It was a pretty cottage, well backed with trees and 

 bushes, with a south-east mixture of sunlight and shade, 

 and little touches that cannot be suggested by writing. 

 Job had not got the Semitic instinct of keeping. The 

 art of acquisition he possessed to some extent, that was 

 his right hand ; but somehow the half-crowns slipped 

 away through his unstable left hand, and fortune was a 

 greasy pole to him. His left hand was too cunning for 

 him, it wanted to manage things too cleverly. If it had 

 only had the Semitic grip, digging the nails into the flesh 

 to hold tight each separate coin, he would have been 

 village rich. The great secret is the keeping. Finding is 

 by no means keeping. Job did not flourish in his old days ; 

 the people changed round about. Job is gone, and I 

 think every one of that cottage is either dead or moved. 

 Empty. 



The next cottage was the water-bailiffs, who looked 

 after the great pond or ' broad.' There were one or two 

 old boats, and he used to leave the oars leaning against 



