It was during the Great Depression, when money was in short supply, that the collector would visit weekly to pick up a small amount of cash toward the sum that was owed. The two young boys who were sitting at the top of the outside stairs glimpsed the gas man approaching. They informed their mother who was nearby on the verandah. Knowing she did not possess even the trivial necessary amount, she flung herself onto one of the handy beds, and in a panic-stricken voice beseeched her sons, ‘Quick! Cover me with the rug! And tell the man I am not at home!’ The gas man ascended the stairs and asked for the mother. ‘Mum’s not at home,’ they informed the collector. ‘Oh, where is she?’ he asked. ‘She’s gone to town.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yair. She’s gone to town.’ ‘Well, when she gets home,‘ he said as he glanced around, ‘I want you to tell your mother something…tell her the next time she goes to town, remember to take her feet with her!’