ing on her finger.

"Cum 'ere, an' I'll tear yer blasted eyes out," cried the drunkard,
turning on her furiously.

The ragpicker's daughter leaned forward, and inquired, "'Ow d'ye like
yer eggs done?"

At this simple inquiry the drunkard stamped her foot with rage, calling
on her enemy to prepare for instant death. And the two women bombarded
one another with insults, raking the gutter for adjectives, spitting
like angry cats across the width of the pavement.

The Push gathered round, grinning from ear to ear, sooling the women on
as if they were dogs. But just as a shove from behind threw Sloppy
nearly into the arms of her enemy, the Push caught sight of a
policeman, and walked away with an air of extreme nonchalance. At the
same moment the drunkard saw the dreaded uniform, and, obeying the laws
of Cardigan Street, pulled herself together and walked away, mumbling
to herself. The three women watched the performance without a word,
critical as spectators at a play. When they saw there would be no
scratching, they resumed their conversation.

"W'en a woman takes to drink, she's found a short cut to 'ell, an' lets
everybody know it," said Mrs Yabsley, briefly. "But this won't git my
work done," and she tucked up her sleeves and went in.

The Push, bent on killing time, and despairing of any fresh diversion
in the street, dispersed slowly, one by one, to meet again at night.

The Cardigan Street Push, composed of twenty or thirty young men of the
neighbourhood, was a social wart of a kind familiar to the streets of
Sydney. Originally banded together to amuse themselves at other
people's expenses, the Push found new cares and duties thrust upon
them, the chief of which was chastising anyone who interfered with
their pleasures. Their feats ranged from kicking an enemy senseless,
and leaving him for dead, to wrecking hotel windows with blue metal, if
the landlord had contrived to offend them. Another of their duties was
to check ungodly pride in the rival Pushes by battering them out of
shape with fists and blue metal at regular intervals.

They stood for the scum of the streets. How they lived was a mystery,
except to people who kept fowls, or forgot to lock their doors at
night. A few were vicious idlers, sponging on their parents for a
living at twenty years of age; others simply mischievous lads, with a
trade at their fingers' ends, if they chose to work. A few were
honest, unless temptation stared them