deference, accorded only to the most important figures in the town. 'Good morning to you,' he cried affably, setting his head farther back in a proud geniality, marching around the corner into the High Street with his stick over his shoulder, and tramping up the incline like a soldier until he reached the crest of this main thoroughfare. There he stopped opposite an inconspicuous shop. The shop was old and quiet, with a narrow, unostentatious front marked by a small single window that displayed no merchandise, but masked its face discreetly behind an interior screen of fine meshed wire, which, though it veiled the window revealed the hidden secret of the shop by bearing upon its drawn grey filigree, in faded gilt lettering, the one word Hatter. It was, then, apparently a hat shop, but although it held the most commanding situation in the town, it not only disguised its character but seemed to remove itself from public observation, receding slightly from the common frontage of the street and permitting the adjacent buildings to project beyond and above it, as though it wished to remain, despite the fixed solidity of its position, as unobserved and unobtrusive as it might, reserving its contents, and striving to conceal itself and all that lay within from vulgar, prying eyes. Above its doorway the sign, too, was bleached by age and weather, its paint finely cracked by sun and smoothly washed by rain; but, still distinguishable upon it in thin, sloped letters across its surface, was the name James Brodie. This was Brodie's shop. Each morning, as he regarded it, the fact that he should possess it never failed to amuse him, and for twenty years he had inwardly regarded his business with a tolerant derision. It was of course the sole means of his livelihood, the unimpressive source of his stately and inspiring habitation, its solid, steady business the origin of his fine clothes and the money he rattled so easily in his pockets; yet his attitude towards it was that of a man who views with
an indulgent yet contemptuous air some trifling and unbecoming foible within his own nature. He Brodie was a hatter! He was not ashamed of the fact, but gloried in its ridiculous incongruity, revelled in the contrast between himself and the profession of his adoption which he knew must continually present itself to the world at large. He turned and surveyed the street from his elevated position like a monarch offering himself freely to the public gaze. He was only a hatter! The richness of the absurdity of his position was always before him, inevitably appealed to him, and now an internal diversion shook him as he moved into his shop to start another day's work.
Inside, the shop was dark, neglected, and almost dingy, its dim interior bisected by a long counter which ran the length of the room, acting as a barrier between the public and the private divisions of the establishment and bearing upon its worn, indented surface at one end a graduated series of tarnished brass stands, each supporting a kat or cap of different style and colour. At the other distant end, the counter joined the wall as a ledge capable of elevation, thus permitting ingress to a short row of steps leading to a door with a ground-glass
window on which was inscribed the word Office. Running backwards, beside and underneath this elevated compartment, was a small L-shaped cupboard of a back shop that, deprived of its original dimensions by the more recent imposition of the Office, contained with some difficulty in its limited extent an ironing board and an iron stove which, with its perpetual blast, dried more thoroughly the already sapless and vitiated air. In the shop itself the walls were covered in a drab crimson paper upon which hung several old prints; although few hats were to be seen and upon these no prices were displayed, behind the counter stood a series of wide mahogany drawers for caps and a long line of shelves upon which stacks of cardboard boxes ranged from floor to ceiling.
Behind the counter, and in front of this abundant but hidden stock, stood a young man whose appearance suggested that his stock of virtues must also be concealed. He was thin, with an etiolated countenance which palely protested against the lack of sunlight in the shop and which was faintly pitted with honourable scars gained in his perpetual struggle against an addiction to boils, a disorder to which he was unhappily subject, attributed by his devoted mother to thin blood and against which she continually fortified him with Pepper's Quinine and Iron tonic.
The general engaging aspect of his features was not, however, marred to any extent by these minor blemishes, nor by a small but obtrusive wart which had most inconsiderately chosen its location upon the extremity of his nose, and was well set off by a shock of dark hair, feathered, despite its careful oiling, and so frosted with dandruff that it shed its surplus flakes and formed a perpetual rime upon his coat collar.
The remainder of his person was pleasing and his dress suited soberly his position; but about him clung a peculiar, sour odour occasioned by a tendency towards free perspiration, particularly from his feet, a regrettable but unavoidable misfortune that occasionally induced Brodie to fling him out of the back door, which abutted upon the Leven, together with a cake of soap and a profane injunction to wash the offending members. This was Peter Perry, messenger, assistant, salesman, disciple of the stove and ironing board, lackey of the master, and general factotum rolled in one.
As Brodie entered he inclined his body forward, his hands pressed deeply on the counter, fingers extended, elbows flexed, showing more of the top of his head than his face and, in a passion of obsequiousness, awaited his master's greeting.
'Mornin', Perry.'
'Good morning, Mr. Brodie, sir,' replied Perry with nervous haste, showing a little less of his hair and a little more of his face.
'A very beautiful morning again, sir! Wonderful for the time of year. Delightful!' He paused appreciatively before continuing, 'Mr. Dron has been in to see you this morning, on business he said, sir.'
'Dron! What the devil does he want?'
'I'm sure I couldn't say, sir. He said he'd come back later.'
'Humph!' grunted Brodie. He strode into his office, flung himself into a chair and, disregarding the several business letters that lay on the desk, lit his pipe. Then he tilted his hat well back on his head it was a sign of personal superiority that he never removed it at his business and took up the Glasgow Herald, that had been placed carefully to his hand.
He read the leading article slowly, moving his lips over the words; although occasionally he was obliged to go over an involved sentence twice in order to grasp its meaning, he persisted tenaciously. At times he would lower the paper and look blankly at the wall in front, using the full power of his sluggish mentality, striving to comprehend fully the sense of the context. It was a stern, matutinal task which Brodie set himself to assimilate the Herald's political editorial, but he considered it his duty as a man of standing to do so. Besides, it was thus that he provided himself with weighty argument for his
more serious conversation, and to this purpose he never failed to accomplish the task, although by next morning he had completely forgotten the gist of what he had read.
Half a column had been battled with in this dogged fashion when a diffident tap upon the glass panel disturbed him.
'What is it?' shouted Brodie.
Perry, for only Perry could have knocked like that, replied through the closed door:
'Mr. Dron to see you, sir.'
'What the devil does he want? Does he not know I'm at the Herald's leader and can't be disturbed?'
Dron, a dejected, insignificant individual, was standing close behind Perry and could hear every word, a fact of which Brodie was maliciously aware, and which induced him, with a satirical humour, to couch his replies in the most disagreeable terms and in the loudest tones he could. Now, with a faint grin upon his face, he listened over his lowered paper to the muffled consultation outside the door.
'He says, Mr. Brodie, he won't keep you a minute,' insinuated Perry.
'A minute, does he say ! Dearie me, now. He'll be lucky if he gets a second. I havena the least desire to see him,' bawled Brodie. 'Ask him what he wants and if it's not important the little runt can save his breath to cool his porridge.' Again there was a whispered colloquy, during which Perry, with vigorous pantomime more expressive than his words, indicated that he had done everything to further the other's interests compatible with his own safety and security.
'Speak to him yourself, then,' he mumbled finally, in self-acquittal, seceding from the cause and backing away to his counter. Dron opened the door an inch and peered in with one eye.
'You're there, are you?' remarked Brodie, without removing his eyes from the paper, which he had again raised in a grand pretence of reading. Dron cleared his throat and opened the door a little further.
'Mr. Brodie, could I have a word wi' you just for a wee minute? I'll not keep ye more nor that,' he exclaimed, working himself gradually into the office through the slight opening he had cautiously made.
'What is it, then?' growled Brodie, looking up in annoyance. 'I've no dealings wi' you that I'm aware of. You and me are birds that don't fly together.'
'I ken that well, Mr. Brodie,' replied the other humbly, 'and that’s the very reason I've come to see ye. I came
