The street was again empty. The drizzle was slacking off now, but the light was grayer. With enormous interest, Adam watched his hands as they touched and shifted the objects on the board directly before him. Into the emptiness of the street, and his spirit, moved a form.

The form was swathed in an army blanket, much patched, fastened at the neck with a cord. From under the shapeless huddle of blanket the feet moved in the mud. The feet wore army shoes, in obvious disrepair. The head was wrapped in a turban and on top of the turban rode a great hamper across which a piece of poncho had been flung. The gray face stared straight ahead in the drizzle. Moisture ran down the cheeks, gathered at the tip of the nose, and at the chin. The figure was close enough now for him to see the nose twitching to dislodge the drop clinging there. The figure stopped and one hand was perilously freed from the hamper to scratch the nose. Then the figure moved on.

This was one of the Irish women who had built their own huts down near the river. They did washing. Adam recognized this one. He recognized her because she was the one who, in a winter twilight, on the edge of camp, had once stopped him and reached down her hand to touch his fly. ``Slice o ' mutton, bhoy?'' she had queried in her soft guttural. ``Slice o ' mutton?''

Her name was Mollie. They called her Mollie the Mutton, and laughed. Looking down the street after her, Adam saw that she had again stopped and again removed one hand from the basket. He could not make out, but he knew that again she was scratching her nose. Mollie the Mutton was scratching her nose.