children in the street.

"It's only high spirits," said Mrs. Billing; "all children are like that.
And I do it to help the mothers."

"And 'cos you like children," said her husband, preserving his good-
humour with an effort.

There was a touch of monotony about the new life, and the good deeds that
accompanied it, which, to a man of ardent temperament, was apt to pall.
And Elk Street, instead of giving him the credit which was his due,
preferred to ascribe the change in his behaviour to what they called
being "a bit barmy on the crumpet."

He came home one evening somewhat dejected, brightening up as he stood
in the passage and inhaled the ravishing odours from the kitchen. Mrs.
Billing, with a trace of nervousness somewhat unaccountable in view of
the excellent quality of the repast provided, poured him out a glass of
beer, and passed flattering comment upon his appearance.

"Wot's the game?" he inquired.

"Game?" repeated his wife, in a trembling voice. "Nothing. 'Ow do you
find that steak-pudding? I thought of giving you one every Wednesday."

Mr. Billing put down his knife and fork and sat regarding her
thoughtfully. Then he pushed back his chair suddenly, and, a picture of
consternation and wrath, held up his hand for silence.

"W-w-wot is it?" he demanded. "A cat?"