scraps from the bacon counter for Dad's
breakfast. And there you have a refection for the gods.

Observe also the pale young man who lodges in some remote garret by
Limehouse Hole. He has but a room, and his landlady declines the
responsibility of "doing" for him. He must, therefore, do his own
shopping, and he does it about as badly as it can be done. His demeanour
suggests a babe among wolves, innocence menaced by the wiles of
Babylon; and sometimes motherly old dears audibly express pity at his
helplessness, which flusters him still more, so that he leaves his
change on the counter.

The road is a black gorge, rent with dancing flame. The public-house
lamps flare with a jovial welcome for the jaded shopper, and every
moment its doors flap open, and fling their fire of joy on the already
overcharged air. Between the stalls parade the youth and beauty, making
appointments for the second house at the Poplar Hippodrome, or
assignations for Sunday evening.

As the stalls clear out the stock so grows the vociferousness of their
proprietors, and soon the ear becomes deadened by the striving rush of
sound. Every stall and shop has its wide-mouthed laureate, singing its
present glories and adding lustre to its latest triumphs.

"I'll take any price yeh like, price yeh like! Comerlong, comerlong, Ma!
This is the shop that does the biz. Buy-buy-buy-uy!"

"Walk up, ladies, don't be shy. Look at these legs. Look at 'em. Don't
keep looking at 'em, though. Buy 'em. Buy 'em. Sooner you buy 'em sooner
I can get 'ome and 'ave my little bath. Come along, ladies; it's a dirty
night, but thank God I got good lodgings, and I hope you got the same.
Buy-buy-buy!"

"'Ere's yer lovely bernanas. Fourer penny. Pick 'em out where yeh like!"

In one ear a butcher yells a madrigal concerning his little shoulders.
In the other a fruit merchant demands to know whether, in all your
nacheral, you ever see anything like his melons. Then a yard or so
behind you an organ and cornet take up their stand and add "Tipperary"
to the swelling symphony. But human ears can receive so much, and only
so much, sound; and clapping your hands over your ears, you seek the
chaste seclusion, for a few minutes, of the saloon of "The Black Boy,"
or one of the many fried-fish bars of the Lane.

Still later in the evening the noise increases, for then the stalls are
anxious to clear out their stock at any old price. The wise wife--and
Johnnie's missus is one--wait