red handkerchief full of some sort of loose rubbish, which the boys
gathered when it fell about the floor, or purloined from the handkerchief
when they judged that the owner was sufficiently fast asleep. Hubert now
saw that the handkerchief was filled with bits of coloured chalk, and
guessed that the man must be a pavement artist.

'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is,' said the artist, fixing his
pale, melancholy eyes on Hubert; 'bad manners, no eddication, and, above
all, no respect.'

'They are an unmannerly lot--that Jew boy especially. I don't think there's
a vice he hasn't got.'

The artist stared at Hubert a long time in silence. A thought seemed to be
stirring in his mind.

'I'm speaking, I can see, to a man of eddication. I'm a fust-rate judge of
character, though I be but a pavement artist; but a picture's none the less
a picture, no matter where it is drawn. That's true, ain't it?'

'Quite true. A horse is a horse, and an ass is an ass, no matter what
stable you put them into.'

The artist laughed a guttural laugh, and, fixing his pale blue porcelain
eyes on Hubert, he said--

'Yes; see I made no bloomin' error when I said you was a man of eddication.
A literary gent, I should think. In the reporting line, most like. Down in
the luck like myself. What was it--drink? Got the chuck?'