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The house was run on a principle of extreme parsimony: should the ball-valve in a lavatory cease to do its work a shrivelled and diminutive plumber would, sooner or later, appear, a certain Mr. Shotstone. Since the ball-valve was constantly in need of attention, the Hardings were very familiar with Mr. Shotstone, and it was seldom that he failed to diversify his professional visits in the following manner. Indeed, with this difficulty of Mr. Shotstone's Essie was so familiar that she took it as a matter of course when the summons arrived. A hoarse whispered call would reach her from the little lavatory in the hall. ''Ere, Missis, come 'ere.' When she approached, finding him standing on the lavatory seat, she would distinguish the words hissed hoarsely over his shoulder—'Me truss is slipping—ask 'er to come'—Essie would signal Mrs. Harradson and repeat the message. 'His truss is slipping,' she would say. Mrs. Harradson would be transfixed with indignation, her head would shoot in and out, her white crest weirdly flashing. In a high-pitched staccato grunt came the usual sounds, 'Oo . . . disgusting . . . what, Madam? . . . What? . . . Did 'ee? . . . Did 'ee say that? . . . nasty ole man. . . .' Shooting her head in and out, she hurtled across to the water closet. There her sharp liquid grunts could be heard as she adjusted the truss. In a few minutes she returned. Mr. Shotstone was a prostatic elder and at times literally stank the lavatory out. Herself slightly impregnated with this disagreeable odour, Mrs. Harradson shot angry glances over her shoulder in the direction of the hall and continued to snarl, 'Dirty ole man—dirty ole man.'

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