horse, and, as I say, it happened. Cavilla had to
seek fresh employment and find another house.

This occurred eighteen months ago. For eigh
teen months he fought the big fight. He got
rooms in a little house on Batavia Road, but could
not make both ends meet. Steady work could not
be obtained. He struggled manfully at casual
employment of all sorts, his wife and four children
starving before his eyes. He starved himself, and
grew weak, and fell ill. This was three months ago,
and then there was absolutely no food at all. They
made no complaint, spoke no word; but poor folk
know. The housewives of Batavia Road sent
them food, but so respectable were the Cavillas
that the food w r as sent anonymously, mysteriously,
so as not to hurt their pride.

The thing had happened. He had fought, and
starved, and suffered for eighteen months. He
got up one September morning, early. He opened
his pocket-knife. He cut the throat of his wife,
Hannah Cavilla, aged thirty-three. He cut the
throat of his first-born, Frank, aged twelve. He
cut the throat of his son, Walter, aged eight. He
cut the throat of his daughter, Nellie, aged four.
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

[[272]]

p271 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p272w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p273

v?