comes to take us back to the
steamer. There is a huge fat man seated on a low stool cleaning the
boots of another man equally stout. Wedged into the corner beside them,
so that they cannot stir, are two small white boys with thin pathetic
little faces. As we watch we see the boot-cleaning man, who has a cruel,
mean expression, pull hold of the little tunic of the nearer one, and
point to a smear upon it, then deliberately he raises his large hand and
smacks the child hard across the cheek. The little chap makes no effort
to escape,--he evidently knows it is hopeless,--he only crooks a thin
little arm over his cheek as he shrinks back. Deliberately the great man
holds down the thin little arm and strikes him again with savage force.
It is sickening! If we interfere the child will probably only get it
worse afterwards. There are a few brutes like this who make their own
children's lives a misery, though mostly French people are very kind.
The children look so ill and pale, too, they probably don't get half
enough to eat.

"May I get them some sweets?"

Happy thought! We passed a shop a minute ago. Here, wait a second, say
to the father in your best French this sentence--

"Ils sont a vous, ces garcons, Monsieur? Tres beaux garcons!"

You see you have put him in a good humour, he is pleased, though the
poor little chaps are very far from being "beaux." They seem almost too
stupefied to understand the sweets, but they know the way to put them in
their mouths.

While we are waiting on the tender before it starts we see a different
set of little boys; one, a delicate, pretty-looking little fellow, about
your age, but not nearly so tall or strong, raises his cap and begins in
English, "Good-day, Monsieur." His little companions sit around in awe
at his knowledge and audacity. His name is Pierre, he tells us, and that
badly dressed sturdy little boy with a sullen face is Louis. Pierre
tries to make conversation in our own language to entertain us. "Are you
to Australie going?" he asks. We tell him we are going first to Egypt.
"Monter au chameau!" he cries excitedly, going off into a gabble of
French and beseeching us to take him with us as "boy." We tell him that
he is too small and that it costs much money. "Have you money--English?"
he asks. He is very much interested when we show him half a crown and
explain that it is equal to three francs of his own money. Then he
catches sight of some English stamps. "Timbres!" he c