PREMONITIONS
ON the ragged skirts of the great city, where a steady stream of lorries and electric cars rumble over the Canal Bridge, stand twenty high-fenced, grimy acres of coal heaps.
All day long, year in and year out, the blackened and lumbering coal-carts ply back and forth between those high-fenced acres of bituminous blackness and the switching yard of the railway, stopping only at the weigh scales as they go.
As these loaded carts jolt over the stony road, a ragged band of cadaverous and hungry-eyed urchins, trailing behind them ludicrously improvised wheeled things, follow them like vultures, waiting to pounce down on any loose chunk of coal that may jolt unnoticed from the big cart.
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