tune was caressing,
languishing, a love song. But his eyes rolled fiercely, and his
moustache seemed to bristle with anger.

Le pinson et la fauvette
Chantaient nos chastes amours,
Que les oiseaux chantent toujours,
Pauvre Colinette, pauvre Colinette.

When he reached the women he hopped to the pavement holding out his hat
like a collection plate, with a beseeching air. The women were
embarrassed, grudging the pennies, but afraid of being thought mean.
Mrs Yabsley broke the silence.

"I don't know wot ye're singin' about, an' I shouldn't like ter meet
yer on a dark night, but I'm always willin' ter patronize the opera, as
they say."

She fumbled in her pocket till she found tuppence. The sailor took the
money, rolled his eyes, gave her a magnificent bow, and continued on
his way with a fresh stanza:

Lorsque nous allions tous deux
Dans la verdoyante allee,
Comme elle etait essoufflee,
Et comme j'etais radieux.

"The more fool you," said Mrs Jones, who was ashamed of having nothing
to give. "I've 'eard 'e's got a terrace of 'ouses, an' thousands in
the bank. My cousin told me 'e sees 'im bankin' 'is money reg'lar in
George Street every week."

And then a conversation followed, with instances of immense fortunes
made by organ-grinders, German bands, and street-singers--men who
cadged in rags for a living, and could drive their carriage if they
chose. The women lent a greedy ear to these romances, like a page out
of their favourite novelettes. They were interrupted by an
extraordinary noise from the French singer, who seemed suddenly to have
gone mad. The Push had watched in ominous silence the approach of the
Frenchman. But, as he passed them and finished a verse, a
blood-curdling cry rose from the group. It was a perfect imitation of
a dog baying the moon in agony. The singer stopped and scowled at the
group, but the Push seemed to be unaware of his existence. He moved
on, and began another verse. As he stopped to take breath the cry
went up again, the agonized wail of a cur whose feelings are harrowed
by music. The singer stopped, choking with rage, bewildered by the
novelty of the attack. The Push seemed lost in thought. Again he
turned to go, when a stone, jerked as if from a catapult, struck him on
the shoulder. As he turned, roaring like a bull, a piece of blue metal
struck him above the eye, cutting the flesh to the bone. The blood
began to trickle slowly down hi