Idols and I, with the flush in our cheeks, and the flash in our eyes, and our forms all buoyant with innocent fun, came suddenly round a corner on a party of low-looking men, who were casting flat stones, bowling, or curling, or playing at drake, with a great tin can for their mark. We turned and were off in a moment; but we had been observed by the sharpest and slyest eyes in London. A man gave chase in half-skating fashion, having bones tied under his boots, in lieu of skates. We could easily have escaped, in spite of his bones; but was I going to run away, like a skittish servant-maid? I drew up Miss Isola sharply, whether she would or no, and confronted the enemy. It was Mr. Shelfer himself, the man so modest and bashful, who could never bear to look at me. Though a dozen more came after him, I felt no alarm at all, knowing his wonderful shyness and diffidence. But his first address amazed me. "Now’s your time, lads. At ’em, I say. Here’s the two prettiest gals in London." The low scoundrel! I saw that he was quite tipsy. But frightened as I was, for none but they were near, I could hardly help laughing at him. He had his usual slouch, and the long sly nose, and the pent-house gleam of the eye, and his gaunt cheeks drawn as if he was always sucking them, and the chimneypot hat, that had once belonged to some steady going Churchman, with the crown flapping in, like the gills of a fish. All this was balanced by the skill and comical courage of Bacchus, upon a pair of grating marrow-bones. Behind him his countless pockets yawned and looked brown on the wind. And this was the being bowed down to by Mrs. Shelfer! "Clara dear, stop, Clara!" the impudent sot cried out. I had stopped without that, and was already facing him. For a moment he was abashed, for my eyes were full upon his; but the others were coming up. "Now this is what I calls harmony, dashed if it isn’t. Why look at the trees and the bushes. There’s harmony in them trees, ay in every one on ’em. Fine trees and pretty gals, them’s the jockeys for me. That’s what I calls natur’ and something like. Houses! Lor, there’s no harmony in houses and pantiles. Fine trees is all harmony, and so is lovely woman. Don’t tell the old gal at home. She never would understand. Why Idols there is a pretty duck as ever swam on the ice. But Clara’s a ---- fine swan, and no mistake. Ducks is all very well, but a swan is the jockey for me. There’s something to lay hold on there. Give me a swan I say, and the harmony of them trees. Bob Ridley, I’ll lay you a tanner I kisses that there swan. Ever see such eyes, Bob, and look at the way she stands. Wonder there’s a bit of ice left here." The low rogue had a long pipe "in his head,"--as Farmer Huxtable expressed it,--and at every leering sentence blew out a puff of smoke. "Bet you a tanner, Charley, you don’t kiss that stunnin’ gal," cried his friend, as drunk as himself.