Vada had forgotten her journey of that morning, it had quite passed out of her little head in the usual way of such trifling unpleasantnesses which go so frequently to make up the tally of childhood's days. Jamie had no understanding of it. His Vada was with him again, hectoring, guiding him as was her wont, and, in his babyish way, he was satisfied. As for Scipio he gave no sign of anything. He was concentrating all his mental energies on the work in hand, thus endeavoring to shut out memory which possessed nothing but pain for him. Every now and then a quick, sidelong glance in the children's direction kept him informed of their doings and safety, otherwise his eyes were rarely raised from the iron bath, filled to the brim with its frothing suds. Striding down the slope from the hut where he had come in search of Scipio, this was the picture Wild Bill discovered. The little yellow-headed man was standing in the midst of a small clearing in the bushes, a clearing long since made for the purposes of his wife's weekly wash. His back was turned, and his small figure was bowed over the tub in front of him. Every bush around him was decorated with clothes laid out on their leafy surfaces, where the sun could best operate its hygienic drying process. He saw the bobbing heads of the mudlarking children a few yards away where the low cut-bank hid their small bodies from view. And somehow an unusual pity stirred his hard, world-worn heart. And yet no one could have called him a sentimental man. At least, no one who knew his method of life. How would it be possible to gild a man with humane leanings who would sit in to a game at poker, and, if chance came his way, take from any opponent his last cent of money, even if he knew that a wife and children could be reduced to starvation thereby? How could a kindliness of purpose be read into the acts of a man who would have no scruple in taking life, under provocation, without the least mercy or qualm of conscience? He displayed no tenderness, he hated what he considered such weakness. It was his studied practice to avoid showing consideration for others, and he would have bitterly resented those who considered him. He preferred that his attitude towards the world should be one of unyielding selfishness. Such was the game of life as he understood it. Yes, honestly enough, he hated sentiment, and for this very reason he cursed himself bitterly that such a feeling as he now experienced should so disturb him. He hurried down the slope a shade quicker than there was any necessity for. And it was as though he were endeavoring to outstrip the feelings which pursued him.