Hubert hated this boy, and once could not resist boxing his ears.  The ’’ot un’ writhed easily out of his reach, and then assailed him with foul language, and so loud were his words that they awoke the innocent cause of the quarrel, a weak, sickly-looking man, with pale blue eyes and a blonde beard.  Hubert had protected him before now against the brutality of the boys, who, when they were not playing nap, divided their pleasantries between him and the decrepit prize-fighter.  He came in about nine, took a cup of coffee from the counter, and settled himself for a snooze.  The boys knew this, and it was their amusement to keep him awake by pelting him with egg-shells and other missiles.  Hubert noticed that he had always with him a red handkerchief full of some sort of loose rubbish, which the boys gathered when it fell about the floor, or purloined from the handkerchief when they judged that the owner was sufficiently fast asleep.  Hubert now saw that the handkerchief was filled with bits of coloured chalk, and guessed that the man must be a pavement artist.

‘A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is,’ said the artist, fixing his pale, melancholy eyes on Hubert; ’bad manners, no eddication, and, above all, no respect.’

’They are an unmannerly lot—­that Jew boy especially.  I don’t think there’s a vice he hasn’t got.’

The artist stared at Hubert a long time in silence.  A thought seemed to be stirring in his mind.

’I’m speaking, I can see, to a man of eddication.  I’m a fust-rate judge of character, though I be but a pavement artist; but a picture’s none the less a picture, no matter where it is drawn.  That’s true, ain’t it?’

’Quite true.  A horse is a horse, and an ass is an ass, no matter what stable you put them into.’

The artist laughed a guttural laugh, and, fixing his pale blue porcelain eyes on Hubert, he said—­

‘Yes; see I made no bloomin’ error when I said you was a man of eddication.  A literary gent, I should think.  In the reporting line, most like.  Down in the luck like myself.  What was it—­drink?  Got the chuck?’

‘No,’ said Hubert, ‘never touch it.  Out of work.’

’No offence, master, we’re all mortal, we is all weak, and in misfortune we goes to it.  It was them boys that drove me to it.’

‘How was that?’

’They was always round my show; no getting rid of them, and their remarks created a disturbance; the perlice said he wouldn’t ’ave it, and when the perlice won’t ’ave it, what’s a poor man to do?  They are that hignorant.  But what’s the use of talking of it, it only riles me.’  The blue-eyed man lay back in his seat, and his head sank on his chest.  He looked as if he were going to sleep again, but on Hubert’s asking him to explain his troubles, he leaned across the table.