It was but a little crowd that stood at the Old Bailey corner while the bell tolled¹, to watch for the black flag. This was not a popular murder. Josh Perrott was not a man who had been bred to better things; he did not snivel and rant² in the dock; and he had not butchered his wife nor his child, nor anybody with a claim on his gratitude³ or affection; so that nobody sympathised with him, nor got up a petition for pardon, nor wrote tearful letters to the newspapers. And the crowd that watched for the black flag was a small one, and half of it came from the Jago.  
While it was watching, and while the bell was tolling⁴, a knot of people stood at the Perrotts' front-doorway, in Old Jago Street. Father Sturt went across as soon as the

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