MR. SMEETH GETS HIS RISE

his head or just simply didn't mean anything to any-
body. But what was good was good. Ta turn ta ta—now
how did that go? All the way from the High Street to
Chaucer Road, as he hurried down the darkening streets
and tried to make his overcoat collar reach the back of
his hat, he was also trying to capture that tune. He
could feel it still beating and glowing somewhere inside
him.

His wife and Edna were in. He heard their voices
as he shut the front door. George was probably still
out. "Hello, there. Only me," he shouted. "George
in yet?" They told him that George was in bed (George
was always out very late or in bed quite early. A
puzzling lad), so he carefully locked and bolted the front
door,

"Well, here's the wanderer," cried Mrs. Smeeth gaily.
She had still got her hat and coat on, and was refreshing
herself with a piece of cake and half a tumbler of stout.
"And where did you get to, Dad?"

"Went to a concert," he replied, a trifle self-con-
sciously. He drew nearer the fire and began taking off
his boots.

"Get your dad his slippers, Edna, that's a good girl,"
said her mother. "And where was this concert then?"

"Queen's Hall."

"Oo, classy, aren't we?" cried Mrs. Smeeth. "Did you
like it?'"

"I'll bet he didn't/' said Edna, an aggressive low-brow.

"How do you know he didn't, miss. Some people
like a bit of good music, even if you don't We're not
all jazz-mad. There's nobody round here who enjoys
good music, classical pieces, better than your father.
Isn't that so, Dad? Nobody knows that better than I