He cut the throat of his youngest-born,
Ernest, aged sixteen months. Then he watched beside the dead all day
until the evening, when the police came, and he told them to put a penny
in the slot of the gas-meter in order that they might have light to see.
Frank Cavilla stood in court, dressed in a much worn grey suit, and
wearing no collar. He was a good-looking man, with a mass of black hair,
dark, expressive eyes, delicately chiselled nose and chin, and wavy, fair
moustache.
CHAPTER XXIII--THE CHILDREN
"Where home is a hovel, and dull we grovel,
Forgetting the world is fair."
There is one beautiful sight in the East End, and only one, and it is the
children dancing in the street when the organ-grinder goes his round. It
is fascinating to watch them, the new-born, the next generation, swaying
and stepping, with pretty little mimicries and graceful inventions all
their own, with muscles that move swiftly and easily, and bodies that
leap airily, weaving rhythms never taught in dancing school.
I have talked with these children, here, there, and everywhere, and they
struck me as being bright as other children, and in many ways even
brighter. They have most active little imaginations.
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