There were few London households in which Christmas had been “merry,” and the lack of festive doings had necessarily extended to those who are of the roofless household of the streets. Billy of Mayfair, in his brief career, had had some “well-fed” Christmases--the roast beef of old England, solid slabs of plum pudding, with oranges and nuts to follow. Thanks to the spasmodic attention of kindly people, the boy’s digestive machinery, which usually had very little to work upon, on those special occasions had been taxed to its utmost capacity. He had had one specially happy Christmas in hospital, and there lingered in his memory a song of goodly fare which all the little patients had been taught to sing in unison: “Apple pies in Autumn, Currant pies in June; Mince pies at Christmas, Coming very soon!” The poetry of pie! The staff-nurse said Billy had the sweetest voice in the ward. It had won him--coupled with his one-legged agility--great popularity with the young family of Joe the stableman, and he was the sole guest at their Christmas gathering in their rooms at the end of the mews. There was a goose for dinner--provided by Aldwyth Westwood--and other fare both rich and succulent. The savour thereof filled the small and inconvenient apartment, and with it was blended the odour proper to the mews itself. The preparation of such a meal taxed Mrs Joe’s time and temper to the uttermost. She cooked the repast with an infinite amount of clatter, and then sat down to share it, nursing the while their youngest born, one Francis Joseph, of whom mention has been already made. Francis Joseph was fretful, and dominated the whole company--a truly imperial and imperious infant. Joe, in his shirt-sleeves--he was never happy in a coat--expounded to Billy his strong objections to the motor-car. “Give me ’osses,” he growled; “when you’ve got an ’oss to deal with you know how to go to work; but them machines, snortin’, and smellin’, and tearin’ all over the place--why, it’s disgustin’!” Billy cordially agreed. “What’ll happen when there ain’t no ’osses left in London, that’s what I want to know,” said Joe. Billy was unable to say. He didn’t know, and he said so. But they were in full sympathy these two, always the best of friends. They were out together on Bank Holiday, and in the procession to Trafalgar Square were to be seen marching side by side.