f the less-frequented thoroughfares, with straight
shining black marks where wheels had cut their way.

At intervals in the day the fog had fallen blacker than night. Down by
the waterside the roads were deep in a mixture of a weak gray-brown or
coffee color. Beside one of the bridges in Chelsea, an open slope leads
straight to the stream, and here, in the afternoon--for a late start was
made--the carts of the Vestry had been led, and loads of slush that had
choked up the streets in the more fashionable parts of the town had been
unladen into the river. This may not be the most; scientific of sanitary
modes of clearing the streets and squares, but it was the way that
recommended itself to the wisdom of the Contractor. In the early evening
the fog had lightened a little, but it fell sadly again, and grew so
thick that the bridge was lost in mist half-way across the river, like
the arches of that fatal bridge beheld by Mirza in his Vision. The masts
of the vessels moored on the near bank disappeared from view, and only
a red lamp or two shone against the blackness of the hulks. From the
public-house at the corner--the _Hit or Miss_--streamed a fan-shaped
flood of light, soon choked by the fog.

Out of the muddy twilight of a street that runs at right angles to
the river, a cart came crawling; its high-piled white load of snow was
faintly visible before the brown horses (they were yoked tandem) came
into view. This cart was driven down to the water-edge, and was there
upturned, with much shouting and cracking of whips on the part of the
men engaged, and with a good deal of straining, slipping, and stumbling
on the side of the horses.

One of the men jumped down, and fumbled at the iron pins which kept the
backboard of the cart in its place.

"Blarmme, Bill," he grumbled, "if the blessed pins ain't froze."

Here he put his wet fingers in his mouth, blowing on them afterward, and
smacking his arms across his breast to restore the circulation.

The comrade addressed as Bill merely stared speechlessly as he stood at
the smoking head of the leader, and the other man tugged again at the
pin.

"It won't budge," he cried at last. "Just run into the _Hit or Miss_ at
the corner, mate, and borrow a hammer; and you might get a pint o' hot
beer when ye're at it. Here's fourpence. I was with three that found a
quid in the _Mac_,* end of last week; here's the last of it."

* A quid in the _Mac_--a sovereign in the street-scr