CHAPTER II.
THE SWEATER.
The catastrophe was not complete.

There were some long thin fibres of pale boiled meat, whose juices had gone to enrich the soup, lying about the floor or adhering to the fragments of the pitcher.

Solomon, who was a curly-headed chap of infinite resource, discovered them, and it had just been decided to neutralize the insipidity of the bread by the far-away flavor of the meat, when a peremptory knocking was heard at the door, and a dazzling vision of beauty bounded into the room.
"'Ere! What are you doin', leavin' things leak through our ceiling ?" Becky Belcovitch was a buxom, bouncing girl, with cherry cheeks that looked exotic in a land of pale faces.

She wore a mass of black crisp ringlets aggressively suggestive of singeing and curl-papers.

She was the belle of Royal Street in her spare time, and womanly triumphs dogged even her working hours.