bank. My cousin told me 'e sees 'im bankin' 'is money reg'lar in George
Street every week."

And then a conversation followed, with instances of immense fortunes made
by organ-grinders, German bands, and street-singers--men who cadged in
rags for a living, and could drive their carriage if they chose. The
women lent a greedy ear to these romances, like a page out of their
favourite novelettes. They were interrupted by an extraordinary noise
from the French singer, who seemed suddenly to have gone mad. The Push
had watched in ominous silence the approach of the Frenchman. But,
as he passed them and finished a verse, a blood-curdling cry rose from
the group. It was a perfect imitation of a dog baying the moon in agony.
The singer stopped and scowled at the group, but the Push seemed to be
unaware of his existence. He moved on, and began another verse. As he
stopped to take breath the cry went up again, the agonized wail of a cur
whose feelings are harrowed by music. The singer stopped, choking with
rage, bewildered by the novelty of the attack. The Push seemed lost
in thought. Again he turned to go, when a stone, jerked as if from a
catapult, struck him on the shoulder. As he turned, roaring like a bull,
a piece of blue metal struck him above the eye, cutting the flesh to
the bone. The blood began to trickle slowly down his cheek.

Still roaring, he hopped on his crutch with incredible speed towards
the Push, who stood their ground for a minute and then, with the instinct
of the cur, bolted. The sailor stopped, and shook his fist at their
retreating forms, showering strange, foreign maledictions on the fleeing
enemy. It was evident that he could swear better than he could sing.

"Them wretches is givin' Froggy beans," said Mrs Swadling.