ABSTRACT
O f the sounds which formed a constant daytime background to life in Shitayama-cho one was more strident and insistent than any other. This was the handbell of the borough refuse collector and, unlike the flute of the bean-curd seller or the kettledrum of the sugar-doll man, it was more a command than an offer of service. Three times a week he moved round the ward, stationing himself for a few minutes at each corner and waiting until the housewives from the neighbourhood had come from their houses to empty their buckets of refuse in his handcart.
