Presently Doughy grew tired and, crossing the street, sat on the kerbstone in front of Mrs Yabsley's, with his eye on the door.

And as he sat, he caressed the tomahawk, and carried on a loud conversation with himself, telling all the secrets of his married life to the street.

Cardigan Street was enjoying itself.

The crowd dwindled as the excitement died out, and Doughy was left muttering to himself.

From the group at the corner came the roar of a chorus: You are my honey, honeysuckle, I am the bee, I'd like to sip the honey sweet from those red lips, you see; I love you dearly, dearly, and I want you to love me; You are my honey, honeysuckle, I am the bee.
Doughy still muttered, but the beer had deadened his senses and his jealous anger had evaporated.