remained on my sleeve for weeks) and pointing a shaking forefinger at
the dead wall ahead. "Nevill's Court," said Mrs. Jablett, "is a alley,
and you goes into it through a archway. It turns out of Fetter Lane on
the right 'and as you goes up, oppersight Bream's Buildings."

I thanked Mrs. Jablett and went on my way, glad that the morning round
was nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of a growing appetite and of
a desire to wash in hot water.

The practice which I was conducting was not my own. It belonged to poor
Dick Barnard, an old St. Margaret's man of irrepressible spirits and
indifferent physique, who had started only the day before for a trip
down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the currant trade;
and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyage of
geographical discovery.

I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow, arched opening,
bearing the superscription "Nevill's Court," arrested my steps, and here
I turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait for the
wanderer in London byways. Expecting to find the grey squalor of the
ordinary London court, I looked out from under the shadow of the arch
past a row of decent little shops through a vista full of light and
colour--a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved by
sunlit foliage. In the heart of London a tree is always a delightful
surprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers. The
narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with their wooden
palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaint and
sober rusticity; and even as I entered a bevy of work-girls, with
gaily-coloured blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened up
the quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summer