"I imagine I must have a hundred rolls—all the old fellows. Lucy was silent. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Everything. The last piece was Scheherazade. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. And, when I have seen him pining away before my eyes, getting thinner and thinner every day, I have sometimes thought my prayers were heard. Let us proceed with our tale. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother.
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