"D'ye mean a little moll wi' ginger hair?" asked Chook.

Jonah nodded.

"My oath, she was! Gi' me a knockout in one act," said Chook; and the
others laughed.

"Ginger fer pluck!" cried someone.

And they began to argue whether you could tell a woman's character from
the colour of her hair; whether red-haired women were more deceitful
than others.

Suddenly, up the road, appeared a detachment of the Salvation Army,
stepping in time to the muffled beat of a drum. The procession halted
at the street corner, stepped out of the way of traffic, and formed
a circle. The Push moved to the kerbstone, and, with a derisive grin,
awaited the performance.

The wavering flame of the kerosene torches, topped with thick smoke,
shone yellow against the whiter light of the gas-jets in the shops.
The men, in red jerseys and flat caps, held the poles of the torches in
rest. When a gust of air blew the thick black smoke into their eyes, they
patiently turned their heads. The sisters, conscious of the public gaze,
stood with downcast eyes, their faces framed in grotesque poke-bonnets.

The Captain, a man of fifty, with the knotty, misshapen hands of a
workman, stepped into the centre of the ring, took off his cap, and began
to speak.