Jerry, the economist with the corrugated brow, and Stanley the stupid, both with cigarettes in their mouths, were standing apart in lofty isolation, as befitted the fathers of the flock.

A cherub-faced urchin, playing cards, and deep in his play, was humming abstractedly the chorus of a catchy song.

Stanley nudged his pal, strolled up behind the youth, and boxed his ears.

The whistler rose and rubbed his ear, aggrieved.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

Stanley scowled down at him.

“Whistlin’ that at Putnam’s o’ Sunday.”

“What were I whistlin’ then?” asked the aggrieved urchin.

“Mocassin Song,” said the haughty Stan.  “Now no more of it!”

“I didn’t know I were whistlin’ it,” replied the youth.

“He whistles it in his dreams, Alf does,” explained a little pal.  “It’s got to his head.”

“He won’t ’ave no ’ead to dream with if he mocassins us,” retorted Stan.

The wrong righted, and order restored, Stanley stalked majestically back to his pal with a wink.

“Where’s Albert then?” asked Jerry.

“He said he wasn’t comin’.”

“He’s been sayin’ that every Sunday these ten year past,” answered Jerry with the insolence of the ancient habitue.  “Ere, one o’ you kids, fetch me a bit o’ chalk.  I ‘ate to see you idlin’ your time away, gamblin’ and dicin’, like the Profligate Son when he broke the bank at Monte Carlo.”

He mounted the platform.

“While Ginger’s gettin’ the chalk I’ll ask you a question or two to testify your general knowledge.”

He took the cigarette out of his mouth, and wriggled his chin above his high collar.

“Who done Mr. Silver down?” he asked pontifically.

There was a moment’s silence.  Then a hand went up.

“Chukkers,” piped the cherub-faced urchin.

There was a jeer from the other lads, and even the proud Stanley deigned to smile.

“Alf’s got Chukkers on the crumpet,” Jerry said sardonically.  “If there was a nearthquake and they ask Alf who done it, he’d say Chukkers.”

“Well, he’s up to all sorts,” retorted the wise cherub.

Jerry repeated his original question.

“Who done Mr. Silver down?”

“Jews,” ventured a sporting youth.

This answer met with more approval.

“That’s more like,” said Jerry.  “Now ’ow can he get back on ’em?”

“Bash ’em,” suggested the sportsman, encouraged by his previous success.  “He’s bigger nor them, I’ll lay.”

The lecturer on the platform lifted a protesting hand.

“You mustn’t bash ’em, boy Jackson,” he said.  “Tain’t accordin’ to religion—­at least not the religion what I’m here to teach you.  No,” said the preacher of righteousness, “you mustn’t bash ’em.  That’d never do.”

“What then?” piped the cherub.

“You must lay for him,” answered the moralist.