It is no easy matter to squeeze one's way through. Ned Corduroy is bargaining for a saw, screwdriver, hammer, or some other implement of his craft at one of the overflowing tool-shops, which appear to be amongst the most flourishing trades in the lane. So here I am wedged in for a while, shoulder to shoulder with smiling Jack Bunting, in front of the windowless shop of a Hebrew jeweller, who weighs some ring or trinket offered for sale as calmly as if the great bulk of his stock were not exposed within easy reach of any light-fingered person looking on. Were his Lordship my companion at this moment I should tremble for him. Watch upon watch would be within his grasp, and would be conveyed, I fear, to his capacious coat-tail pocket.
Circulation is possible again now.
Every step brings something fresh. Strolling homewards by way of Houndsditch I stray into the Old Clo' Market. I've one that'll fit you noicely.