“We stopped the groceries,” roared the Relieving Officer.  “But in the case of Plummett—­”

“In the case of Tonk—­” persisted Sarah Brown.  “She has moved from Mud Street, can you tell me her last address?”

“She is living in a sort of private charitable institution, somewhere on the outskirts of the district—­Mitten Island, I fancy.  I don’t know the exact address, because we have stopped the groceries, she paying no rent now.  In the case of Plummett, I thought you might be interested to know that she got a month this morning for assaulting the Sanitary Inspector—­pulling his nose, I hear.  She told the magistrate it struck her as being a useless nose if it didn’t notice anything wrong with her drains.  The children came into the House this morning.”

“What is Tonk’s Christian name?” asked Sarah Brown, who had been a changed woman since Mitten Island was mentioned.

“I forget.  Some flower name, I think.  Probably Lily or Ivy.  In the case of M’Clubbin, the woman is said to have fallen through a hole in the floor of the room she and her three children slept in.  She was admitted into the Infirmary last night, and her furniture will be sold to pay her rent—­”

“It begins with P,” said Sarah Brown.  “P.  Tonk, unmarried wife, of Mitten Island....”

The Relieving Officer went away, for it was dinner-time.  Sarah Brown absently unwrapped the little dinner which she had brought hanging by a thin string from a strangled finger.  Mustard sandwiches with just a flavouring of ham, and a painfully orthodox 1918-model bun, made of stubble.  Sarah Brown almost always forgot the necessity of food until she was irrevocably in the ’bus on her way to work.  But this morning, as she had taken her seat with David in the bouncing ferry-boat, there had been a panting rustling noise behind her, and Harold the Broomstick had swept a little packet of sandwiches into her lap.  He had disappeared before she had been able to do more than turn over in her mind the question whether or no broomsticks ever expect to be tipped.

Now I could not say with certainty whether the witch, in making up this packet of sandwiches, had included the contents of one of her own little packets of magic.  Sarah Brown would have been very susceptible to such a drug; her mind was always on the brink of innocent intoxication.  Perhaps she was only half a woman, so that half a joy could make her heart reel and sing, and half a sorrow break it.  She was defenceless against impressions, and too many impressions make the heart very tired.  Therefore, I think, she was a predestined victim of magic, and it seems unlikely that the witch should have missed such an opportunity to dispense spells.

After the first bite at the first sandwich, Sarah Brown was conscious of a Joke somewhere.  This feeling in itself was akin to delirium, for there are no two facts so remote as a Joke and a Charity Society.  The office table confronted Sarah Brown, and she wondered that she could ever have seen it as anything but a butt.  She wondered how she had been able to sit daily in front of that stout and earnest index without poking it in the ribs and making a fool of it.  The office clock, alone among clocks, had never played a practical joke.  The sad fire below it, conscious of a Mission, was overloaded with coal and responsibility.