after this conversation, patrolling
the streets with the gang, with the zest of a drunkard returning to his
cups. Mrs Yabsley, who saw that she had pushed her attack too far,
waited in patience.

Jonah found the Push thirsting for blood. One of them had got three
months for taking a fancy to a copper boiler that he had found in an
empty house, and they discovered that a bricklayer, who lived next
door, had put the police on his track. The Push resolved to stoush
him, and had lain in wait for a week without success. Jonah took the
matter in hand, and inquired secretly into the man's habits. He
discovered that the bricklayer, sober as a judge through the week, was
in the habit of fuddling himself on pay-day. Jonah arranged a plan,
which involved a search of every hotel in the neighbourhood.

But one Saturday night, as they were stealthily scouting the streets
for their man, Jonah suddenly thought of Ada. It was weeks since he
had last seen her. He was surprised by a faint longing for her
presence, and, with a word to Chook, he slipped away.

The cottage was in darkness and the door locked; but after a moment's
hesitation, he took the key from under the flowerpot and went in. He
struck a match and looked round. The irons were on the table. Mrs
Yabsley had evidently gone out with the shirts. He lit the candle and
sat down.

The room was thick with shadows, that fled and advanced as the candle
flickered in the draught. He looked with quiet pleasure on the
familiar objects--the deal table, propped against the wall on account
of a broken leg, the ragged curtain stretched across the window, the
new shelf that he had made out of a box. He studied, with fresh
interest, the coloured almanacs on the wall, and spelt out, with
amiable derision, the Scripture text over the door. He felt vaguely
that he was at home.

Home!--the word had no meaning for him. He had been thrown on the
streets when a child by his parents, who had rid themselves of his
unwelcome presence with as little emotion as they would have tossed an
empty can out of doors.

A street-arab, he had picked a living from the gutters, hardened to
exposure, taking food and shelter with the craft of an old soldier in
hostile country. Until he was twelve he had sold newspapers, sleeping
in sheds and empty cases, feeding on the broken victuals thrown out
from the kitchens of hotels and restaurants, and then, drifting by
chance to Waterloo, had found a h