form a chin, subsiding into a large white neck.
The Seraph's look of pity deepened to horror. "You must be almost weady," he gasped.
"Ready? Ready for what, my little love?"
"Stickin'—oo, will it hurt vewy much?"
"Bless the child. What does he mean?"
"He's not very well," I explained. "I think he's delirious."
"That's why we brought him here to get a cool drink," added Angel, hurriedly, and between us we led the recreant to the little table in the rear of the shop where the grocer had set out three glasses of ginger beer and a plate of mixed cakes. Five minutes of unalloyed bliss followed and we were just draining off the last dregs and cleaning up the crumbs, when a bullet-headed boy stuck his head in at the door.
"Dorg's 'ere again," he said, laconically. "Nosin' abaht in the gabbage 'eap."
"Tie a can on 'is tile," said the grocer.
The boy disappeared, and the three of us pushed back our chairs and followed in his wake, scenting adventure in the littered yard behind the shop with its strange odours of bygone fruit and greens.
The dog, a small, black, Scottish terrier, was dragging an end of Boulogna sausage from the garbage heap. The bullet-headed boy winked at us, selected an empty can from the heap, pro-
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