can't stay no longer--and I can't get up the stairs--and Poddle's
dyin'--and _git your hat_!"

In a moment the boy returned. The Fat Lady was standing beside the
cab--the exhausted horse contemplating her with no friendly eye.

"Git in!" said she.

"Don't you do it," the driver warned.

"Git in!" the Fat Lady repeated.

"Not if he knows what's good for him," said the driver. "Not first."

The boy hesitated.

"Git in, child!" screamed the Fat Lady.

"Don't you do it," said the driver.

"Child," the Fat Lady gasped, exasperated, "git in!"

"Not first," the driver repeated. "There ain't room for both; and once
she lets her weight down----"

"Maybe," the Fat Lady admitted, after giving the matter most careful
consideration, "it would be better for you to set on me."

"Maybe," the boy agreed, much relieved, "it would."

So Madame Lacara entered, and took the boy in her arms; and off, at
last, they went towards the Box Street tenement, swaying, creaking,
wheezing, with a troop of joyous urchins in the wake....

It was early afternoon--with the sunlight lying thick and warm on the
window-ledge of Mr. Poddle's room, about to enter, to distribute cheer,
to speak its unfailing promises. The sash was lifted high; a gentle
wind, clean and blue, blowing from the sea, over the roofs and the
river, came sportively in, with a joyous little rush and swirl--but of
a sudden failed: hushed, as though by unexpected encounter with the
solemnity within.

The boy's mother was gone. It was of a Saturday; she had not dared to
linger. When the boy entered, Mr. Poddle lay alone, lifted on the
pillows, staring deep into the wide, shining sky: composed and
dreamful. The distress of his deformity, as the pains of dissolution,
had been mitigated by the woman's kind and knowing hand: the tawny
hair, by nature rank and shaggy, by habit unkempt, now damp with sweat,
was everywhere laid smooth upon his face--brushed away from the eyes:
no longer permitted to obscure the fast failing sight.

Beside him, close--drawing closer--the boy seated himself. Very low
and broken--husky, halting--was the Dog-faced Man's voice. The boy
must often bend his ear to understand.

"The hirsute," Mr. Poddle whispered, "adornment. All ready for the
last appearance. 'Natural Phenomonen Meets the Common Fate.'
Celebrities," he added, with a little smile, "is just clay."

The boy took his hand.

"She done it," Mr. Poddle explained, faintly indi