CHAPTER III.
MALKA.
The Sunday Fair, so long associated with Petticoat Lane, is dying hard, and is still vigorous; its glories were in full swing on the dull, gray morning when Moses Ansell took his way through the Ghetto.

It was near eleven o'clock, and the throng was thickening momently.

The vendors cried their wares in stentorian tones, and the babble of the buyers was like the confused roar of a stormy sea.

The dead walls and hoardings were placarded with bills from which the life of the inhabitants could be constructed.

Many were in Yiddish, the most hopelessly corrupt and hybrid jargon ever evolved.