'Yes, they have,' the barman answered, in surprise. 'Why?'

My name's Snowdon, sir--Jane Snowdon.'

She reddened over all her face as soon as she had given utterance to
the impulsive words. The barman was regarding her with a sort of
semi-interest, and Mr. Squibbs also had fixed his bleary (or beery)
eyes upon her. Neither would have admitted an active interest in so
pale and thin and wretchedly-clad a little mortal. Her hair hung
loose, and had no covering; it was hair of no particular colour, and
seemed to have been for a long time utterly untended; the wind, on
her run hither, had tossed it into much disorder. Signs there were
of some kind of clothing beneath the short, dirty, worn dress, but
it was evidently of the scantiest description. The freely exposed
neck was very thin, but, like the outline of her face, spoke less of
a feeble habit of body than of the present pinch of sheer hunger.
She did not, indeed, look like one of those children who are born in
disease and starvation, and put to nurse upon the pavement; her
limbs were shapely enough, her back was straight, she had features
that were not merely human, but girl-like, and her look had in it
the light of an intelligence generally sought for in vain among the
children of the street. The blush and the way in which she hung her
head were likewise tokens of a nature endowed with ample
sensitiveness.

'Oh, your name's Jane Snowdon, is it?' said the barman. 'Well,
you're just three minutes an' three-quarters too late. P'r'aps it's
a fortune a-runnin' after you. He was a rum old party as inquired.
Never mind; it's all in a life. There's fortunes lost every week by
a good deal less than three minutes when it's 'orses--eh, Mr.