gride of wheels behind him, and turning his head saw a man dressed in dirty brown rags and a felt hat grey with dust, who was standing with a slight swaying motion and fixedly regarding the Angelic back. Beyond him was another almost equally dirty, pushing a knife-grinder's barrow over the bridge.
"Mornin'," said the first person, smiling weakly. "Goomorn." He arrested an escaping hiccough.
The Angel stared at him. He had never seen a really fatuous smile before. "Who are you?" said the Angel.
The fatuous smile faded. "No your business whoaaam. Wishergoomorn."
"Carm on," said the man with the grindstone, passing on his way.
"Wishergoomorn," said the dirty man, in a tone of extreme aggravation. "Carncher Answerme?"
"Carm on you fool!" said the man with the grindstone—receding.
"I don't understand," said the Angel.
"Donunderstan'. Sim'l enough. Wishergoomorn. Willyanswerme? Wonchr? gemwishergem goomorn. Cusom answer goomorn. No gem. Haverteachyer."
The Angel was puzzled. The drunken man stood swaying for a moment, then he made an unsteady snatch at his hat and threw it down at the Angel's feet. "Ver well," he said, as one who decides great issues.
"Carm on!" said the voice of the man with the grindstone—stopping perhaps twenty yards off.
"You wan fight, you—" the Angel failed to catch the word. "I'll show yer, not answer gem's goomorn."
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