The ''ot
un' writhed easily out of his reach, and then assailed him with foul
language, and so loud were his words that they awoke the innocent cause of
the quarrel, a weak, sickly-looking man, with pale blue eyes and a blonde
beard. Hubert had protected him before now against the brutality of the
boys, who, when they were not playing nap, divided their pleasantries
between him and the decrepit prize-fighter. He came in about nine, took a
cup of coffee from the counter, and settled himself for a snooze. The boys
knew this, and it was their amusement to keep him awake by pelting him with
egg-shells and other missiles. Hubert noticed that he had always with him a
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.
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