the circus who loved to
come and sit with Hubert. She had been a rider, she said, but had broken
her leg on one occasion, and cut her head all open on another, and had
ended by running away with some one who had deserted her. 'So here I am,'
she remarked, with a burst of laughter, 'talking to you. Did you never hear
of Dolly Dayrell?' Hubert confessed that he had not. 'Why,' she said, 'I
thought every one had.'

About eight o'clock in the evening, the table near the stairs was generally
occupied by flower-girls, dressed in dingy clothes, and brightly feathered
hats. They placed their empty baskets on the floor, and shouted at their
companions--men who sold newspapers, boot-laces, and cheap toys. About nine
the boys came in, the boys who used to push the old prize-fighter about,
and Hubert soon began to perceive how representative they were of all
vices--gambling, theft, idleness, and cruelty were visible in their faces.
They were led by a Jew boy who sold penny jewellery at the corner of Oxford
Street, and they generally made for the tables at the end of the room, for
there, unless custom was slack indeed, they could defeat the vigilance of
the serving-maid and play at nap at their ease. The tray of penny jewellery
was placed at the corner of a table, and a small boy set to watch over it.
His duty was also to shuffle his feet when the servant-maid approached, and
a precious drubbing he got if he failed to shuffle them loud enough. The
''ot un,' as he was nicknamed, always had a pack of cards in his pocket,
and to annex everything left on the tables he considered to be his
privilege. One day, when he was asked how he came by the fine carnation in
his buttonhole, he said it was a present from Sally, neglecting to add that
he had told the child to steal it from a basket which a flower-girl had
just put down.

[Illustration: "'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is.'"]

Hubert hated this boy, and once could not resist boxing his ears. The ''ot
un' writhed easily out of his reach, and then assailed him with foul
language, and so loud were his words that they awoke the innocent cause of
the quarrel, a weak, sickly-looking man, with pale blue eyes and a blonde
beard. Hubert had protected him before now against the brutality of the
boys, who, when they were not playing nap, divided their pleasantries
between him and the decrepit prize-fighter. He came in about nine, took a
cup of coffee from the counter, and settled himself f