It was known that the singer had thoughts of cultivating his talent and of appearing on the music-hall stage; it was not unlikely that he might some day become ‘the great Sam.’  A second song was called for and granted; a third—­but Mr. Coppock intimated that it did not become him to keep other talent in the background.  The chairman made a humorous speech, informing the company that their friend would stand forth again later in the evening.  Mr. Dick Perkins was at present about to oblige.

The Vice was a frisky little man.  He began with what is known as ‘patter,’ then gave melodious account of a romantic meeting with a damsel whom he had seen only once to lose sight of for ever.  And the refrain was: 

She wore a lov-e-lie bonnet
With fruit end flowers upon it,
End she dwelt in the henvirons of ’Ol-lo-w’y!

As yet only men had sung; solicitation had failed with such of the girls as were known to be musically given.  Yet an earnest prayer from the chairman succeeded at length in overcoming the diffidence of one.  She was a pale, unhealthy thing, and wore an ugly-shaped hat with a gruesome green feather; she sang with her eyes down, and in a voice which did not lack a certain sweetness.  The ballad was of springitime and the country and love.

Underneath the May-tree blossoms
Oft we’ve wandered, you and I,
Listening to the mill-stream’s whisper,
Like a stream soft-gliding by.

The girl had a drunken mother, and spent a month or two of every year in the hospital, for her day’s work overtaxed her strength.  She was one of those fated toilers, to struggle on as long as any one would employ her, then to fall among the forgotten wretched.  And she sang of May-bloom and love; of love that had never come near her and that she would never know; sang, with her eyes upon the beer-stained table, in a public-house amid the backways of Lambeth.

Totty Nancarrow was whispering to Thyrza: 

‘Sing something, old girl!  Why shouldn’t you?’

Annie West was also at hand, urging the same.

’Let ’em hear some real singing, Thyrza.  There’s a dear.’

Thyrza was in sore trouble.  Music, if it were but a street organ, always stirred her heart and made her eager for the joy of song.  She had never known what it was to sing before a number of people; the prospect of applause tempted her.  Yet she had scarcely the courage, and the thought of Lydia’s grief and anger—­for Lydia would surely hear of it—­was keenly present.

‘It’s getting late,’ she replied nervously.  ’I can’t stay; I can’t sing to-night.’

Only one or two people in the room knew her by sight, but Totty had led to its being passed from one to another that she was a good singer.  The landlord of the house happened to be in the room; he came and spoke to her.

’You don’t remember me, Miss Trent, but I knew your father well enough, and I knew you when you was a little ’un.  In those days I had the “Green Man” in the Cut; your father often enough gave us a toon on his fiddle.  A rare good fiddler he was, too!  Give us a song now, for old times’ sake.’