ne another mildly
when the rope was not properly turned or the skipper did not jump
sufficiently high. Worst off of all were the very young children, for
there had been no rain for weeks, and the street was as dry and clean
as a covered court, and, in the lack of mud to wallow in, they sat
about the road, disconsolate as poets. The number of babies was
prodigious; they sprawled about everywhere, on the pavement, round the
doors, and about their mothers' skirts. The grown-ups were gathered
round the open doors; there were usually two women squatting on the
doorstep, and two or three more seated on either side on chairs; they
were invariably nursing babies, and most of them showed clear signs
that the present object of the maternal care would be soon ousted by a
new arrival. Men were less numerous but such as there were leant
against the walls, smoking, or sat on the sills of the ground-floor
windows. It was the dead season in Vere Street as much as in
Belgravia, and really if it had not been for babies just come or just
about to come, and an opportune murder in a neighbouring doss-house,
there would have been nothing whatever to talk about. As it was, the
little groups talked quietly, discussing the atrocity or the merits of
the local midwives, comparing the circumstances of their various
confinements.

'You'll be 'avin' your little trouble soon, eh, Polly?' asked one good
lady of another.

'Oh, I reckon I've got another two months ter go yet,' answered Polly.

'Well,' said a third. 'I wouldn't 'ave thought you'd go so long by the
look of yer!'

'I 'ope you'll have it easier this time, my dear,' said a very stout
old person, a woman of great importance.

'She said she wasn't goin' to 'ave no more, when the last one come.'
This remark came from Polly's husband.

'Ah,' said the stout old lady, who was in the business, and boasted
vast experience. 'That's wot they all says; but, Lor' bless yer, they
don't mean it.'

'Well, I've got three, and I'm not goin' to 'ave no more bli'me if I
will; 'tain't good enough--that's wot I says.'

'You're abaht right there, ole gal,' said Polly, 'My word, 'Arry, if
you 'ave any more I'll git a divorce, that I will.'

At that moment an organ-grinder turned the corner and came down the
street.

'Good biz; 'ere's an organ!' cried half a dozen people at once.

The organ-man was an Italian, with a shock of black hair and a
ferocious moustache. Drawing his organ to a favourable spo