Lunch was over, and the band had been settled in a corner of the tennis-court. Then Sadie came in with the news. There had been a horrible accident. A man had been killed. "A carter," said Sadie. "His horse shied at a traction-engine on the corner of Hawke Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed." "Dead!" Laura stared at Jose. "Drowned, you mean?" No, killed. Hawke Street was the little lane just below them, in which stood the meanest little cottages, brown as smoke, with cabbage stalks and sick hens and tomato cans in the patches they called gardens. A man had been killed, and there was a young wife and five little children.