"Ladies and gents," cried the clown, drawing himself up with dignity; "there's an individual in this crowd--I beg parden, this assemblage--as asks me to say `one.' I _do_ say `one,' an' I say it with melancholy feelin's as to the liberality of my species. One bob! A feller-man as has bin burnt hout of 'is 'ome an' needs ready money to keep 'im from starvation, offers his best great-coat--a hextra superfine, double-drilled (or milled, I forget w'ich) kershimere, from the looms o' Tuskany--for one bob!" "One-an'-six," muttered an old-clothes-man, with a black cotton sack on his shoulder. "One-an'-six," echoed the clown with animation; "one-an'-six bid; one-an'-six. Who said one-an'-seven? Was it the gent with the red nose?--No, one-an'-six; goin' at the ridiculously low figure of one-an'-six--gone! as the old 'ooman said w'en her cat died o' apple-plexy. Here you are; hand over the money. I can't knock it down to you, 'cause I haven't a hauctioneer's 'ammer. Besides, it's agin' my principles. I've never knocked nothin' down, not even a skittle, since I joined the Peace Society. "Now, ladies an' gents, the next thing I've got to hoffer is a harm-chair. Hand up the harmchair, Jim." A very antique piece of furniture was handed up by a little boy, whom Willie recognised as the little boy who had once conversed with him in front of the chocolate-shop in Holborn Hill. "Thank you, my son," said the clown, taking the chair with one hand and patting the boy's head with the other; "this, ladies and gents," he added in a parenthetical tone, "is my son; _he's_ bin burnt hout of 'ouse an' 'ome, too! Now, then, who bids for the old harm-chair? the wery identical harm-chair that the song was written about. In the embrace o' this 'ere chair has sat for generations past the family o' the Cattleys--that's _my_ name, ladies an gents, at your service. Here sat my great-great-grandfather, who was used to say that his great-grandfather sat in it too. Here sat his son, and his son's son-- the Lord Mayor as was--and his son, my father, ladies and gents, who died in it besides, and whose son now hoffers it to the 'ighest bidder. You'll observe its antiquity, ladies an' gents. That's its beauty. It's what I may call, in the language of the haristocracy, a harticle of _virtoo_, w'ich means that it's a harticle as is surrounded by virtuous memories in connection with the defunct. Now then, say five bob for the hold harm-chair!" While the clown was endeavouring to get the chair disposed of, Willie pushed his way to the side of Jim Cattley. "I say, youngster, would you like a cup o' chocolate?" began Willie by way of recalling to the boy their former meeting. Jim, whose face wore a sad and dispirited look, turned angrily and said, "Come, I don't want none o' your sauce!" "It ain't sauce I'm talkin' of, it's chocolate," retorted Willie. "But come, Jim, I don't want to bother ye. I'm sorry to see you an yer dad in sitch a fix. Have you lost much?"