a state of excitement. 'Now that's what I call a respectable
turn-out!' was the phrase passed from mouth to mouth in the crowd
gathering near the door. Children in great numbers had absented
themselves from school for the purpose of beholding this procession.
'I do like to see spirited 'orses at a funeral!' remarked one of the
mourners, who had squeezed his way to the parlour window. 'It puts
the finishin' touch, as you may say, don't it?' When the coffin was
borne forth, there was such a press in the street that the men with
difficulty reached the hearse. As the female mourners stepped across
the pavement with handkerchiefs held to their mouths, a sigh of
satisfaction was audible throughout the crowd; the males were less
sympathetically received, and some jocose comments from a
costermonger, whose business was temporarily interrupted, excited
indulgent smiles.

The procession moved slowly away, and the crowd, unwilling to
disperse immediately, looked about for some new source of
entertainment. They were fortunate, for at this moment came round
the corner an individual notorious throughout Clerkenwell as 'Mad
Jack.' Mad he presumably was--at all events, an idiot. A lanky,
raw-boned, red-beaded man, perhaps forty years old; not clad, but
hung over with the filthiest rags; hatless, shoeless. He supported
himself by singing in the streets, generally psalms, and with
eccentric modulations of the voice which always occasioned mirth in
hearers. Sometimes he stood at a corner and began the delivery of a
passage of Scripture in French; how, where, or when he could have
acquired this knowledge was a mystery, and Jack would throw no light
on his own past. At present, having watched the funeral coaches pass
away, he lifted up his voice in a terrific blare, singing, 'All ye
works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for