Silver down?" he asked pontifically. There was a moment's silence. Then a hand went up. "Chukkers," piped the cherub-faced urchin. There was a jeer from the other lads, and even the proud Stanley deigned to smile. "Alf's got Chukkers on the crumpet," Jerry said sardonically. "If there was a nearthquake and they ask Alf who done it, he'd say Chukkers."

And, Pink, I wish you'd keep this quiet about him having Chub. I told Rodway I couldn't put him next to the fellow that brought that bunch across the line. I told him the fellow went north and got killed. He did go north fifty miles or so; and he'd ought to been killed, if he wasn't. Let it go that way, Pink." Pink looked like a cherub-faced child when he has been told there's no Santa Claus.

"Eighteen," cried his rival, a short, cheery, cherub-faced little dealer, whose neighbours adjured him to "sit quiet like a good little boy and not waste his pocket-money." "Nineteen!" said Horace. "Pound!" answered the cherubic man. "A pound only bid for this grand brass vessel," said the auctioneer, indifferently. "All done at a pound?"

Jerry, the economist with the corrugated brow, and Stanley the stupid, both with cigarettes in their mouths, were standing apart in lofty isolation, as befitted the fathers of the flock. A cherub-faced urchin, playing cards, and deep in his play, was humming abstractedly the chorus of a catchy song. Stanley nudged his pal, strolled up behind the youth, and boxed his ears.

And much, too, did Richardson enjoy the prosperity his stories, as well as other ventures, brought him, so that he might move out Hammersmith way where William Mortis and Cobden Sanderson have lived in our day, and have a fine house wherein to receive those same lady callers, who came in increasing flocks to his impromptu court where sat the prim, cherub-faced, elderly little printer.