sis!"

Sally shouldn't have shaken her head as she did. She ought to have
ignored his existence. He continued:

"I don't mind makin' it thruppence to the Regency Park. Come, missis,
I say! Think what a little money for the distance. How would _you_
like to do it yourself?" Sally rashly allowed herself to be led into
controversy.

"I tell you I don't want to go to Regents Park." But the boy passed
this protest by--ignored it.

"You won't get no better oarfer. You ask any of the boys. They'll
tell you all alike. Regency Park for thruppence. Or, lookey here
now, missis! You make it acrorst Westminster Bridge, and I'll say
twopence-'a'penny. Come now! Acrorst a bridge!" This boy had quite
lost sight of the importance of selecting a destination with reference
to its chooser's life-purposes, in his contemplation of the advantages
of being professionally conducted to it. Sally was not sorry when the
coming of the fire-engine distracted his attention, and led to his
disappearance in the fog.

Pedestrians must have been stopping at home to get a breath of fresh
air indoors, as the spectres that shot out of the fog, to become
partly solid and vanish again in an instant, seemed to come always
one at a time.

"Can you tell me, sir"--Sally is addressing a promising spectre, an
old gentleman of sweet aspect--"have I passed the Hurkaru Club?" The
spectre helps an imperfect hearing with an ear-covering outspread hand,
and Sally repeats her question.

"I hope so, my dear," he says, "I hope so. Because if you haven't, I
have. I wonder where we are. What's this?" He pats a building at its
reachable point--a stone balustrade at a step corner. "Why, here we
are! This is the Club. Can I do anything for you?"

"I want Major Roper"--and then, thinking more explanation asked for,
adds--"who wheezes." It is the only identification she can recall from
Tishy's conversation and her mother's description. She herself had
certainly seen their subject once from a distance, but she had only
an impression of something purple. She could hardly offer that as
identification.

"Old Jack! He lives in a kennel at the top. Mulberry, tell Major Roper
lady for him. Yes, better send your card up, my dear; that's right!"

By this time they are in a lobby full of fog, in which electric light
spots are showing their spiritless nature. Mulberry, who is like Gibbon
the historian painted in carmine (a colour which clashes with his
vermilion lappets), incit