h a taking lilt in it, made no impression on the old
woman. And she thought with regret that the old tunes had died out with
the people who sang them. These people had lost the trick of enjoying
themselves in a simple manner. Ah for the good old times, when the
street was as good as a play, and the people drank and quarrelled and
fought and sang without malice! A meaner race had come in their stead,
with meaner habits and meaner vices. Her thoughts were interrupted by
a tinkling bell, and a voice that cried:

"Peas an' pies, all 'ot!--all 'ot!"

It was the pieman, pushing a handcart. He went the length of the
street, unnoticed. She thought of Joey, dead and gone these long
years, with his shop on wheels and his air of prosperity. His widow
lived on the rent of a terrace of houses, but his successor was as lean
as a starved cat, for the people's tastes had changed, and the
chipped-potato shop round the corner took all their money. She thought
with pride of Joey and the famous wedding feast--the peas, the pies,
the saveloys, the beer, the songs and laughter. Ah well, you could say
what you liked, the good old times were gone for ever. Once the street
was like a play, and now...Her thoughts were disturbed again by a
terrific noise in the terrace opposite. The door of a cottage flew
open, and a woman ran screaming into the road, followed by her husband
with a tomahawk. But as the door slammed behind him, he suddenly
changed his mind and, turning back, hammered on the closed door with
frantic rage, calling on someone within to come out and be killed.
Then, as he grew tired of trying to get in, he remembered his wife, but
she had disappeared.

The crowd gathered about, glad of a diversion, and the news travelled
across the street to Mrs Yabsley on her veranda. Doughy the baker,
stepping down unexpectedly from the Woolpack to borrow a shilling from
his wife, had found her drinking beer in the kitchen with Happy Jack.
And while Doughy was hammering on the front door, Happy Jack had
slipped out at the back, and was watching Doughy's antics over the
shoulders of his pals. Presently Doughy grew tired and, crossing the
street, sat on the kerbstone in front of Mrs Yabsley's, with his eye on
the door. And as he sat, he caressed the tomahawk, and carried on a
loud conversation with himself, telling all the secrets of his married
life to the street. Cardigan Street was enjoying itself. The crowd
dwindled as the excit