The crowd gathered about,glad of a diversion,and the news travelled across the street to Mrs Yabsley on her veranda.Doughy the baker,stepping down unexpectedly from the Woolpack to borrow a shilling from his wife,had found her drinking beer in the kitchen with Happy Jack.And while Doughy was hammering on the front door,Happy Jack had slipped out at the back,and was watching Doughy's antics over the shoulders of his pals.Presently Doughy grew tired and,crossing the street,sat on the kerbstone in front of Mrs Yabsley's,with his eye on the door.And as he sat,he caressed the tomahawk,and carried on a loud conversation with himself,telling all the secrets of his married life to the street.
Cardigan Street was enjoying itself.The crowd dwindled as the excitement died out,and Doughy was left muttering to himself.From the group at the corner came the roar of a chorus:
You are my honey,honeysuckle,I am the bee,I'd like to sip the honey sweet from those red lips,you see;I love you dearly,dearly,and I want you to love me;You are my honey,honeysuckle,I am the bee.
Doughy still muttered,but the beer had deadened his senses and his jealous anger had evaporated.Half an hour later his wife crossed the street cautiously and went inside.Doughy saw her and,having reached the maudlin stage,got up and lurched across the street,anxious to make it up and be friends.Quite like the old times,thought Mrs Yabsley,when the street was as good as a play.And suddenly remembering her dismal thoughts of an hour ago,she saw in a flash that she had grown old and that the street had remained young.The past,on which her mind dwelt so fondly,was not wonderful.It was her youth that was wonderful,and now she was grown old.She recognized that the street was the same,and that she had changed--that the world is for ever beginning for some and ending for others.