it in your hands and wrung it like a dripping cloth. At such a time
the square would be empty but for one vegetable-cart left in the
care of a lean collie, which, tied to the wheel, whined and shivered
underneath. Pools of water gather in the coarse sacks that have been
spread over the potatoes and bundles of greens, which turn to manure
in their lidless barrels. The eyes of the whimpering dog never leave
a black close over which hangs the sign of the Bull, probably the
refuge of the hawker. At long intervals a farmer's gig rumbles over
the bumpy, ill-paved square, or a native, with his head buried in
his coat, peeps out of doors, skurries across the way, and vanishes.
Most of the leading shops are here, and the decorous draper ventures
a few yards from the pavement to scan the sky, or note the effect of
his new arrangement in scarves. Planted against his door is the
butcher, Henders Todd, white-aproned, and with a knife in his hand,
gazing interestedly at the draper, for a mere man may look at an
elder. The tinsmith brings out his steps, and, mounting them,
stealthily removes the saucepans and pepper-pots that dangle on a
wire above his sign-board. Pulling to his door he shuts out the
foggy light that showed in his solder-strewn workshop. The square is
deserted again. A bundle of sloppy parsley slips from the hawker's
cart and topples over the wheel in driblets. The puddles in the
sacks overflow and run together. The dog has twisted his chain round
a barrel and yelps sharply. As if in response comes a rush of other
dogs. A terrified fox-terrier tears across the square with half a
score of mongrels, the butcher's mastiff, and some collies at his
heels; he is doubtless a stranger, who has insulted them by his
glossy coat. For two seconds the square shakes to an invasion of
dogs, and then again there is only one dog in sight.

No one will admit the Scotch mist. It "looks saft." The tinsmith