The woman with the giggle and the broken-down flowers on her hat went out next; then a tall, thin man with a beard and a cough; the newsboy with his papers shuffled after, his shoes being too large; then a lame man—something seemed the matter with his hip; and a decent-looking woman, who wore a faded shawl over her head and kept it drawn across her face—she seemed ashamed to be there, as if it did not appear to her a respectable place; last, two boys, one of them small, but rather stunted than very young. He said:
“'E ain't a king, is 'e, Jimmy? You don' know who 'e is, do you, Jimmy?”
“Naw.”
“Say, Jimmy, it was warm, warn't it?”
Dennis came down the aisle, put out the gas, and began to brush the cushions. The clock struck a quarter of six, and Father Harra came in.
“Christmas, Dennis, Christmas! H'm—anybody been here? What did they think of it?”
Dennis rubbed his nose sheepishly.
“They wint to shleep, sor, an'—an' thin they wint out.”
Father Harra looked up at the Christ figure and stroked his red chin.