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Updated: May 26, 2025
The shop itself had a large plate-glass window whose contents were now veiled by a buff blind on which was inscribed in scrolly letters: "Rymer, Pork Butcher and Provision Merchant," and then with voluptuous elaboration: "The World-Famed Easewood Sausage." Greetings were exchanged between Mr. Johnson and this distinguished comestible. "Off to church already?" said Johnson.
She flattened her voice in a manner she used to intimate aesthetic feeling. "I do like them glass hearses," she said. "So refined and nice they are." "Podger's hearse you'll have," said Johnson conclusively. "It's the best in Easewood." "Everything that's right and proper," said Mr. Polly. "Podger's ready to come and measure at any time," said Johnson.
It was shocking to lose him; it was like an unexpected hole in the universe, and the writing of "Death" upon the sky, but it did not tear Mr. Polly's heartstrings at first so much as rouse him to a pitch of vivid attention. He came down to the cottage at Easewood in response to an urgent telegram, and found his father already dead.
That only dawned upon him on the morrow which chanced to be Sunday as he walked with Johnson before church time about the tangle of struggling building enterprise that constituted the rising urban district of Easewood. Johnson was off duty that morning, and devoted the time very generously to the admonitory discussion of Mr. Polly's worldly outlook.
Then they descended to the kitchen below. "Rooms in a new house always look a bit small," said Johnson. They came out of the house again by the prospective back door, and picked their way through builder's litter across the yard space to the road again. They drew nearer the junction to where a pavement and shops already open and active formed the commercial centre of Easewood.
Johnson was the sort of man who derives great satisfaction from a funeral, a melancholy, serious, practical-minded man of five and thirty, with great powers of advice. He was the up-line ticket clerk at Easewood Junction, and felt the responsibilities of his position.
Polly found himself heir to a debateable number of pieces of furniture in the house of his cousin near Easewood Junction, a family Bible, an engraved portrait of Garibaldi and a bust of Mr.
It was past ten when Mr. Polly found himself riding back towards Easewood in a broad moonlight with a little Japanese lantern dangling from his handle bar and making a fiery circle of pinkish light on and round about his front wheel. He was mightily pleased with himself and the day. There had been four-ale to drink at supper mixed with gingerbeer, very free and jolly in a jug.
He realised how small a chance his poor letter from Easewood ran against this hungry cluster of competitors at the fountain head. At the back of Mr. Polly's mind while he made his observations was a disagreeable flavour of dentist's parlour.
He had already spent a pound or two upon three select feasts to his fellow assistants, sprat suppers they were, and there had been a great and very successful Sunday pilgrimage to Richmond, by Wandsworth and Wimbledon's open common, a trailing garrulous company walking about a solemnly happy host, to wonderful cold meat and salad at the Roebuck, a bowl of punch, punch! and a bill to correspond; but now it was a weekday, and he went down to Easewood with his bag and portmanteau in a solitary compartment, and looked out of the window upon a world in which every possible congenial seemed either toiling in a situation or else looking for one with a gnawing and hopelessly preoccupying anxiety.
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