His companion reapplied the elbow treatment. "You do!" she squeaked between the digs. "You do, you little ape. Let me see you. On’y let me see you. There’d be a strap ’crost your back blessed soon. Not ’arf, there wouldn’t. You baboon, you!" The girl looked helplessly at nothing, "hushing" the baby upon her breast by means of sudden, horrible, little jerks. Such a pitiful parody of rock-a-bye. She was too young and pale properly to know or understand the business of mothering, which is a difficult business to learn in your spare time, especially when they shut you out for a "quarter" if you are two minutes late at the factory. So that this London mother sucked at a bull’s-eye, and yawned, and jerked, while the London baby lay in her arms and moaned.... "I fink it is the beetroot," reiterated the mother presently. "He looks so cold, Sam." "It’s wind," pronounced the boy, bringing forth a mouth-organ and carefully wiping it upon his sleeve. "Give ’im a tap, same’s I told you. ’Seaweed,’ mates." With which announcement the husband and father proceeded to wring out the melody of that name. We all tapped time with our feet, and the mother sucked her bull’s-eye, and the baby moaned. "He looks so cold," repeated the mother, as the mouth-organ subsided. "Give us ’Cock o’ the North,’ Sam." Sam obeyed this summons with alacrity. "If you will pardon me, young woman," observed the elderly man at my right hand, having duly applauded the soloist—"if you will pardon me, young woman, I will take the liberty of recommending a cold key. It catches the breath, if you take my meanin’. See?" "No; I don’t see," responded the mother sharply. It resented the preferment of counsel. This reflected upon its competence: this offended its sense of dignity. It was a married woman. The husband readdressed himself to his mouth-organ. But as he put that instrument of melody unto his lips, the girl reached sharply forth and stayed him. "E—’e seems to be a-chokin’, Sam," she said. "I think—I b’lieve—I—what you grinnin’ for, you ugly ape? When’ll we get to Bow? ’Ow many stations? You old ’im, Sam: I b’lieve—I—he looks so cold. He looks _so_ cold." "Give ’im another bull’s-eye," suggested Sam. "There’s peppermint in bull’s-eyes. Next station’s Bow. What are you grizzlin’ for?" "’E—’e looks so cold," explained the wife. There was a flame in her eye. A new flame—a flame of fear and joy. It was as though a match had been put to her soul. She was learning the business. The woman in the corner left off giggling. She spoke to the mother. "You run along to bed with ’im, my gel. Never you mind about ’is looks. Run along to bed with ’im, so’s ’e can be warm." And the girl tightened her hold upon the parcels rack; and swayed her body gently, like a real mother. The boy, her husband, drew forth a series of discords from the mouth-organ. But she did not scream at him as before. She stood there, dumbly, rocking her baby like a real mother.