by the proceeding), and I had been on police-
parade, and the small hand of the clock was
moving on to ten, when I took up my lantern to
follow Mr. Superintendent to the traps that were
set for Jack. In Mr. Superintendent I saw, as
anybody might, a tall, well-looking, well set-up
man of a soldierly bearing, with a cavalry air, a
good chest, and. a resolute but not by any means
ungentle face. He carried in his hand a plain
black walking-stick of hard wood; and whenever
and wherever, at any after-time of the night, he
struck it on the pavement with a ringing sound,
it instantly produced a whistle out of the darkness,
and a policeman. To this remarkable
stick, I refer an air of mystery and magic which
pervaded the whole of my perquisition among the
traps that were set for Jack.

We began by diving into the obscurest streets
and lanes of the port. Suddenly pausing in a
flow of cheerful discourse, before a dead wall,
apparently some ten miles long, Mr. Superintendent
struck upon the ground, and the wall
opened and shot out, with military salute of
hand to temple, two policemen—not in the least
surprised themselves, not in the least surprising
Mr. Superintendent.

"All right, Sharpeye?"

"All right, sir."

"All right, Trampfoot?"

"All right, sir."

"Is Quickear there?"

"Here am I, sir."

"Come with us."

'"Yes, sir."

So, Sharpeye went before, and Mr. Superintendent
and I went next, and Trampfoot and
Quickear marched as rear-guard. Sharpeye, I
soon had occasion to remark, had a skilful and
quite professional way of opening doors—
touched latches delicately, as if they were keys
of muscial instruments—opened every door he
touched, as if he were perfectly confident that
there was stolen property behind it—instantly
insinuated himself, to prevent its being shut.

Sharpeye opened several doors of traps that
were set for Jack, but Jack did not happen to be
in any of them. They were all such miserable
places that really, Jack, if I were you, I would give
them a wider berth. In every trap, somebody
was sitting over a fire, waiting for Jack. Now, it
was a crouching old woman, like the picture of
the Norwood Gipsy in the old sixpenny dream-
books; now, it was a crimp of the male sex in
a checked shirt and without a coat, reading a
newspaper; now, it was a man crimp and a
woman crimp, who always introduced themselves
as united in holy matrimony; now, it was Jack's
delight, his (un)lovely Nan; but they were all
waiting for Jack, and were all frightfully
disappointed to see us.

"Who have you got up-stairs here?" says
Sharpeye, generally. (In the Move-on tone.)

"Nobody, surr; sure not a blessed sowl!"
(Irish feminine reply.)

"What do you mean by nobody? Didn't I
hear a woman's step go up-stairs when my hand
was on the latch?"

"Ah! sure thin you're rhight, surr, I forgot
her! 'Tis on'y Betsy White, surr. Ah! you
know Betsy, surr. Come down, Betsy darlin',
and say the gintlemin."

Generally, Betsy looks over the banisters (the
steep staircase is in the room) with a forcible
expression in her protesting face, of an intention
to compensate herself for the present trial by
grinding Jack finer than usual when he does
come. Generally, Sharpeye turns to Mr.
Superintendent, and says, as if the subjects of his
remarks were wax-work:

"One of the worst, sir, this house is. This
woman has been indicted three times. This man's
a regular bad one likewise. His real name is
Pegg. Gives himself out as Waterhouse."

"Never had sitch a name as Pegg near me
back, thin, since I was in this house, bee the
good Lard!" says the woman.

Generally, the man says nothing at all, but
becomes exceedingly round-shouldered, and
pretends to read his paper with rapt attention.
Generally, Sharpeye directs our observation with
a look, to the prints and pictures that are
invariably numerous on the walls. Always, Trampfoot
and Quickear are taking notice on the doorstep.
In default of Sharpeye being acquainted
with the exact individuality of any gentleman
encountered, one of these two is sure to proclaim
from the outer air, like a gruff spectre, that Jackson
is not Jackson, but knows himself to be Fogle;
or that Canlon is Walker's brother, against whom
there was not sufficient evidence; or that the
man who says he never was at sea since he was
a boy, came ashore from a voyage last Thursday,
or sails to-morrow morning. "And that is a
bad class of man, you see," says Mr. Superintendent,
when we got out into the dark again,
"and very difficult to deal with, who, when he
has made this place too hot to hold him, enters
himself for a voyage as steward or cook, and is
out of knowledge for months, and then turns up
again worse than ever."

When we had gone into many such houses,
and had come out (always leaving everybody
relapsing into waiting for Jack), we started
off to a singing-house where Jack was expected
to muster strong.

The vocalisation was taking place in a long
low room up-stairs; at one end, an orchestra of
two performers, and a small platform; across
the room, a series of open pews for Jack, with
an aisle down the middle; at the other end, a
larger pew than the rest, entitled SNUG, and
reserved for mates and similar good company.
About the room, some amazing coffee-coloured
pictures varnished an inch deep, and some
stuffed creatures in cases; dotted among the
audience, in Snug and out of Snug, the
"Professionals;" among them, of course, the
celebrated comic favourite Mr. Banjo Bones, looking
very hideous with his blackened face and
limp sugar-loaf hat; beside him, sipping rum-
and-water, Mrs. Banjo Bones, in her natural
colours—a little heightened.

It was a Friday night, and Friday night was
considered not a good night for Jack. At any