He had joined the army of mendicant musicians, who scrape a tune in front of hotels and shops, living on charity thinly veiled.
They had passed him one night on their return from Mosman, playing in front of a public-house to an audience of three loafers.

The streets had soon dragged him to their level.

Unkempt and half starved, he wore the look of the vagrant who sleeps in his clothes for want of bedding.
Grown childish in his distress, he had forgotten his lifelong habits of neatness and precision, going to pieces like a man who takes to drink.
Clara, who knew his history, was horrified at the sight.

She thought he lived comfortably on a crust of bread by giving lessons.

Jonah turned sulky when she reproached him.
"I don't see 'ow I'm ter blame for this any more'n if 'e'd come to the gutter through drink.