“Fancy being able to spot a black-headed pin in the London dust,” she would say. “What an eye you must have, Rags! And what an almost perfect pin!” “’T’s nuthin’ much,” he would say modestly. “One day I s’ll find sumpthin’ reely good.” He was a shy hoarse little man, but he had a secret ambition which he had never told anyone until he met Ginger. His ambition was to find a diamond--a reely big diamond, as big as the Koh-i-Noor. With this object he had devoted himself from boyhood to the London Streets. “An’ it’s _there_, mum!” he insisted eagerly, “I know it’s there, and one day I s’ll find it.” His cheeks, which were usually grey, got pink when he talked of it. Ginger shared his hope. “What will you do when you’ve found it, Rags?” she asked. “I s’ll take you to the Pit of the Lyceum, mum,” said Rags, getting pinker. “Oh!” said Ginger, overwhelmed. Meanwhile he often made her a little present from his treasure-bag, such as a hairpin, or an empty matchbox. And she would thank him and say how useful the matchbox would be to keep the hairpin in, seeing how short her hair was. Jeremy was on the whole a better-dressed man than Rags. This is to say, he was more orthodox. He had all the finishing touches which go to make the Perfect Nut. If he had not always a hat, he had always a hat-guard; though he sometimes lacked boots, he did not lack boot-buttons; and he was frequently without a collar but never without a stud. It was said of him in the Weatherhouse, not that he was exquisitely dressed, but that he was exquisitely appointed. He was able to be so because of his profession. His hawker’s tray was nearly as interesting to Ginger as Rag’s bag. One day it would be one thing, one day another. “How do you decide?” asked Ginger. “I don’t believe I _could_ make up my mind, Jeremy, between Jumping Rabbits and Dying Pigs.” “Lord bless you, Ginger,” said the Penny Hawker, sticking his penny monocle in his eye (he was the only one who addressed her by her name, but he did it with the manners of Bond Street) “nobody chooses in Hawker’s Hall.” “Hawker’s Hall?” inquired Gypsy. “I’ve heard of Fishmonger’s Hall.” “No connection,” said Jeremy. “I don’t understand the Fish Trade myself, though I once had a friend in Whelks. In Hawker’s Hall we all meet at daybreak and draw lots for the trays. It’s the only way. There’d be too much jealousy otherwise. And the element of chance lends a zest to each day. Even if you’ve had the bad fortune to draw matches from Monday to Friday, you never know but what Saturday may bring you the little men who take their hats off.” “Oh, I _love_ them!” cried Ginger clasping her hands. “You shall have one,” said Jeremy, “the next time I draw them. I haven’t had them this month, but luck must turn some time or other. It’s like gambling--the next deal may always bring you four aces. Here’s Tonio.”