pleasant _cafés_ and well-appointed _restaurants_, and came to
the conclusion (for the fiftieth time) that it was far better than
anything of the same kind in Paris, or any other of the capitals of
Europe. They had all been abroad during their State-assisted vacation,
and consequently had the chief towns of the world, so to speak, at
their finger-tips. As they sauntered along, they came to a group
of half-starved, perambulating performers, who were giving an
entertainment to a crowd of bystanders. It was not a good programme.
First a young woman in rags, played on an old piano, with decent
precision, some extremely difficult variations of CHOPIN's _Funeral
March_. She was followed by a man who painted a portrait of a leading
statesman indifferently well. Then another man jumped into the river,
and made his way in the cold water with the ease of a fifth-rate
professional swimmer. Then a second young woman recited something
or other in German, with an atrocious English accent. And the whole
concluded with a lecture upon chemistry (given by a seedy-looking
old man), which was illustrated with some ambitious, but feeble
experiments.

On the balance the performance was a bore, and the public were rather
pleased than otherwise, when a police constable ordered the _troupe_
"to move on." The poor people gathered together their _impedimenta_
and prepared to obey the officer's behest. It was then that the
performers came face to face with the artisans. There was a cry of
recognition.

"Why, would you believe it!" exclaimed one of the workmen, "if it
isn't SALLY JONES, and TOMMY BROWN, and NORAH JENKINS, and HARRY
SMITH!"