“J’year, Mr. Mundy!” This in a loud voice, with an imperious gesture. “J’year! Can’tche’ answer when a lady speaks t’ye?” “Go on, guv’nor!” said a boy encouragingly, sitting on a post. “Where’s yer manners? Take auf yer ’at to the laidy!” And there was a snigger. Uncle Isaac shifted farther still, and put a group of men between himself and his persecutor. But she was not to be so easily shaken off. Drawing herself up with a scornful majesty that was marred by an occasional lurch, and the bobbing of the tangled bonnet hanging over one ear, she came after Uncle Isaac through the passage readily made by the knot of men. “Ho! so it’s this, is it,” she declaimed, with a stately backward sweep of the arm. “If a lady asks a triflin’ favour you insult ’er. Ye low, common, scoundrel!” This very slowly, with a deep tragedy hiss and a long pause. Then with a piercing note of appeal: “Mr. Mundy! I demand an answer! Once more! _Will_ you lend me twopence?” The people (a small crowd by this time) forgot the troublesome bridge, and turned to the new diversion. “Give the laidy twopence!” roared the boy on the post, in a deep bass. “’Arf a pint ’ud save ’er life!” Uncle Isaac looked desperately about him, but he saw no sympathy. Dockmen, workmen, boys—all were agog to see as much fun as possible in the time at disposal. The pursuing harpy came a step nearer, and bawled again, “_Will_ you lend me twopence?” “No!” cried Uncle Isaac, driven to bay at last. “No, I won’t! Go away! Go away, you—you infamious creacher!” “You won’t?” “No, not by no means. Go away. Y’ought to be ashamed of yerself, you—you—you opstroperous faggit!” “Calls ’isself a gen’leman,” she said, lifting her gaze to the clouds. “Calls ’isself a gen’leman, an’ uses such language to a lady!” “Shockin’,” said one in the hilarious crowd. “What a wicked ole bloke!” Uncle Isaac gave another unquiet glance about him, and moved another yard. The woman brought her eyes to earth again, and: “Won’t gimme twopence,” she proclaimed, “an’ I’m a orficer’s widow! Never mind, len’ me a penny; on’y a penny, Mr. Mundy. Do, there’sh a dear! O you _are_ a ole duck!” And Mother Born-drunk stumbled toward Uncle Isaac with affectionately extended arms. The crowd shrieked with joy, but Uncle Isaac turned and ran, one hand clapped to the crown of his very tall hat. He would wait for no bridge now, but get away as best he could. The boys yelled and whistled, and kept up at an easy trot with the quick scuttle of his short legs; behind them came Mother Born-drunk, tripping and floundering, spurred to infuriate chase by sight and sound of her unchanging enemies, the boys, and growing at every step more desirous of clawing at one of them than of catching Uncle Isaac.