Pratt turned into a somewhat mean and shabby street--a street of small,
poor-class shops. He went forward amongst them until he came to one
which, if anything, was meaner and shabbier than the others and bore
over its window the name Reuben Murgatroyd--Watchmaker and Jeweller.
There were few signs of jewellery in Reuben Murgatroyd's window--some
cheap clocks, some foreign-made watches of the five-shilling and
seven-and-six variety, a selection of flashy rings and chains were
spread on the shelves, equally cheap and flashy bangles, bracelets, and
brooches lay in dust-covered trays on the sloping bench beneath them. At
these things Pratt cast no more than a contemptuous glance. But he
looked with interest at the upper part of the window, in which were
displayed numerous gaily-coloured handbills and small posters relating
to shipping--chiefly in the way of assisted passages to various parts of
the globe. These set out that you could get an assisted passage to
Canada for so much; to Australia for not much more--and if the bills and
posters themselves did not tell you all you wanted to know, certain big
letters at the foot of each invited you to apply for further information
to Mr. R. Murgatroyd, agent, within. And Pratt pushed open the shop-door
and walked inside.
An untidily dressed, careworn, anxious-looking man came forward from a
parlour at the rear of his shop.
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