The Curious Quest by E. Phillips Oppenheim

For nearly three months, Bliss persevered at what had seemed to him at first so impossible a task. Morning and afternoon, with his little black bag, he tramped the streets of Bethnal Green, Whitechapel and the East End of London, making his daily round. He took his midday meal in all sorts of places, and in all sorts of company. His average earnings were about thirty shillings a week, but nearly half of that, notwithstanding her pitiful protests, he had lent to Frances, who, through the return to work of the girl whose place she had taken, was once more out of a situation. His boots were worn through, and his clothes were shabby. He was conscious of moments of almost sickening anxiety as he waited with his pencil in his hand, hoping for an order from one of the small manufacturers upon whom he called. Night after night, somewhere about six o'clock, he returned to the little factory in Finsbury Place to make his report, and on each occasion, whether he had been fortunate or unfortunate, he was conducted by Mr. Morgan to the nearest public house and regaled to the extent of one drink. It was curious how, for the last hour of his labours, he found himself looking forward to the moment when Mr. Morgan would take up his hat from the desk and jerk his thumb towards the door. He was beginning to experience an almost friendly feeling for this large, unwashed man who slaved throughout the day in a cellar, getting twice as much out of his pet machine as any paid operative could, and whom he began to realise was fighting a grim battle against shortness of capital.

"We shall pull through, young fellow," he used often to say as they raised their tankards. "You're the best chap I've had at selling heels, and if I could only afford to give a bit of credit, we'd be roping it in. Here's looking at you!"