horse and, sweeping the littered droppings of street and gutter into a pan, with a long-handled brush, dumped his collections into the cart. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil.
Three sparrows hopped deftly about three fresh smoking globes of horse-dung, pecking out tidbits with dainty gourmandism. Driven away by the approaching cart, they skimmed briskly over to the bank, with bright twitters of annoyance. One too like thee, tameless, and swift, and proud.
George Graves ascended the hill with a slow ponderous rhythm, staring darkly at the ground.
“Say,’Gene!” he said finally. “I don’t believe he makes that much.”
Eugene thought seriously for a moment. With George Graves, it was necessary to resume a discussion where it had been left off three days before.
“Who?” he said, “John Dorsey? Yes, I think he does,” he added, grinning.
“Not over $2, 500, anyway,” said George Graves gloomily.
“No—three thousand, three thousand!” he said, in a choking voice.
George Graves turned to him with a sombre, puzzled smile. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“O you fool! You damn fool!” gasped Eugene. “You’ve been thinking about it all this time.”
George Graves laughed sheepishly, with embarrassment, richly.
From the top of the hill at the left, the swelling unction of the Methodist organ welled up remotely from the choir, accompanied by a fruity contralto voice, much in demand at funerals. Abide with me.
Most musical of mourners, weep again!
George Graves turned and examined the four large black houses, ascending on flat terraces to the church, of Paston Place.
“That’s a good piece of property,’Gene,” he said. “It belongs to the Paston estate.”
Fast falls the even-tide. Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast, in intricacies of laborious song.
