Sowerbutt's Compassion

Sowerbutt put his arm around Jack Shakes’ shoulders. The tailor was sitting at the small desk at the front of his shop in Whitechapel.

“I try and widen my client base, Mr Sorbay, attract new customers,” the dapper little man with brilliantined black hair said with a lop-sided smile. “And this is what I get for my pains.”
The tailor had been punched in the face, his eye rapidly closing and a red welt across his cheek. His two apprentices were re-hanging and brushing down recently-completed jackets, trousers and waistcoats which had been thrown on the floor.
“Came as soon as I heard, Jack. Streets blocked off everywhere with the bombing,” Sowerbutt said. “Who was it? Strangers trying to rob you? Everybody on the street knows you are off-limits.”
The tailor tried his lop-sided smile again. “You are a dear friend, Mr Sorbay, a mensch. No, no robbery. Two big beefy individuals with cheap trilby hats and badly-cut suits. It upsets me to have such rubbish on my premises.”
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