lounger thought of him no more, save as a dread master, whom he would certainly serve, to whom he would most certainly pay his due, and also as a benefactor in a way.
But when he had rid himself of the violent and dreadful thing, and given his order and claimed his due, what Mr. Montague did was this. He boarded a tram in a neighbouring parallel street. He paid his halfpenny, and went right to the Lydgate, an old quarter of the town, now full of slums, wherein dwelt a certain Pole of the name of Lipsky.
He had taken the most rapid means he could, but even so he glanced nervously over his shoulder lest a lounger with a parcel should be following.
What Lipsky, a Pole, with his distant strange name, might mean to a man bearing that old crusading, western name of Montague no one has ever known.
Some say he was a son, which was surely impossible; some a cousin, which is unlikely; for do the Montagues wed the Lipskys?
The tram passed by the door of that little clothes shop—a whole front of slops with huge white ticket-prices on them—and above the word "Lipsky" in large letters of gold on brown. Mr. Montague shuffled off the
