about the standard of an electric light. His head was thrown back and he gazed rapturously upward.
"This is a clock tower," he declared. "I'm trying to find out what time it is. One—two—three—four—five"—and he counted loudly up to twenty-nine. "Twenty-nine o'clock," he announced. "That's as rotten an hour as I ever heard struck."
"Go to hell," said Burns. "That ain't no clock."
"Yes, it is, too! And I'm going to stop here until it strikes again. Next time it'll strike—one—two-three"
The rest of the quintet joined in the counting with explosive shouts.
They were interrupted by a scream from Lilly, doubled up in the middle of the road. They ceased to count and encircled him, all but Sinden Meech, who still clasped the standard.
"What's the matter, Lilly?"
"I've got a pain. Say, you fellers, who d'ye do for a pain?"
"Where is it, Lilly?"
"In m-my belly."
"That's no kind of word to say on the street!"
"Well, what shall I call it then?"
"Diaphragm," said George Fennel.
"All right, then. I've a pain in my diagram."
They shouted with sardonic laughter, hopping about in circles like crows against the snow.
When a lull came, Meech announced, leaving the standard and reeling toward them: "My father brought up ten children on the piccolo."
They gathered about him, interested.
He continued plaintively: "Is it possible that I can't bring up one on the flute?"
They howled.
Three figures were seen approaching, a man and two women. The women were frightened, and the man himself nervous about passing this band of ruffians on the street. He clasped the arms of the women closely, set his face, and marched into their midst.
