Julia (I had no
reason to suppose that her name was not Julia) that it was getting near
tea-time.

[Illustration: "MY BROTHER PAINTS."]

"Oh, is it," she said; "come along, Halbert." Then, turning to me, she
added--"Are yer comin' to-morrer? I'd like yer to see my brother's
paintin's."

"That depends upon how much I make to-day, Julia," I answered--"whether
the 'pitch' is a good one or not."

"Oh," said Julia, thoughtfully; "I'd like yer to come to-morrer," and
then as she passed she dropped a halfpenny into my box.

[Illustration: "BANK 'OLIDAYS ON 'AMPSTEAD 'EATH."]

On other occasions, when out painting in poor neighbourhoods, my easel,
camp-stool, and self have been used as "home" in games like "Hi-spi-hoy"
and "Hoop," and I have, during the progress of my sketch, been more than
once in imminent danger of being carried away, and my kit sent flying,
during a sudden rush of the excited players. But even such an indignity
as this does not touch bottom. Boys have before now made me a "Harbour
of Refuge," with the poetry left out, and bricks and various missiles
substituted. They have dodged behind me to escape the consequences of
"cheekiness" to bigger boys, and have used my canvas as a screen to
shield off stones.

And what are you to do? Just at that moment, in all likelihood, you are
putting in a crisp, telling touch that will "do the trick," and if the
news were brought to you that your favourite aunt had fallen downstairs,
it would not be sufficient to make you rise from off your camp-stool.

[Illustration: "Hi-spi-Hoy"]

I was sketching once near a row of those cheap one-storied cottages,
generally called Villa This and Villa That, inhabited by a tribe the
mothers of which seem always to have a baby on hand, and several others
in various stages of development. These children spend most of their
time, so far as I can judge, in hanging about, just outside the front
garden, waiting for something to turn up to amuse them, and I had been
much bothered by their creeping round behind me, or edging closer and
closer to my side, and occasionally shoving each other so as to shake me
or my sketch. I tried to forget them, and maintained a chilling silence.
The numbers, however, kept on increasing, and presently games were
projected in my immediate vicinity, as though I were the centre of
gravity, or the hub of the universe. The climax was reached when a young
nurse, aged seven or thereabouts, with a child just on