" Really, you know," Mr. Church remarked
over the new bottle, " most singular thing — aw
—three fellahs, perfect strangers, should meet
like this — and all of us strange to London. Bay
Jove. You're from the North (I had told them
so, which was true), I'm from the East, and our
friend and American brother, aw, if I may call
him so, is from the West. Tell you what. As
soon as ever the lawyers have done up my
business, you shall both come down to my
place in Essex and see me. Jolly good welcome
and deuced good shooting. You shoot ? 'course ?"
turning to my American friend.

"Sheute? Wal, a small piece. I was lieutenant
in General Sherman's army for three
yeeres, and very pretty sheutin' we had.
Concleude yeu mean rifle sheutin'?"

"Oh, no; shooting game," Mr. Church
explained.

"Yeu don't du rifle sheutin', then?"

"Bay Jove, no. I only shoot pheasants and
partridges and all that sort of thing."

"Reckon yu're a good shot, perhaps?"

"No, nothing uncommon."

"Wal, how many times d'yu concleude yu'd
hit the bull's-eye out of twenty with a rifle?"

"Oh, aw. I suppose sixteen," said Mr.
Church.

"Bet yeu ten dollars yeu don't hit it fourteen."

"Done."

"Very good, sir. My friend here shall be
umpire." This was I.

"Oh no; hang it! He's a friend of yours
that's not fair. Have the landlord." Thus Mr.
Church.

The American explained that the landlord
could not leave his business, and that I was only
an acquaintance of half an hour, and could not
be prejudiced either way. So, with some apparent
reluctance, Mr. Church consented.

The next thing was, where should we go " to
sheute off the affair," as my American friend
put it. " I know there's a place Westminster
way," he said. " I know there is, 'cause the
volunteers sheute there."

I told him no; the volunteers did not shoot
at Westminster, but only paraded.

"I mean a gallery," he said. " I know I had
a sheute there with one or tew volunteers last
week; but I couldn't find the place again."

"Call a cab," suggested Church. " Cabby
'll be sure to know."

"Where to, sir?" the cabman asked Church.

"Westminster Palace Hotel," he replied.

I was in a cab with two men whose object
was to rob me, and I was being driven whither
they directed. However,I was not going to be
cowed at riding alone with two thieves through
the crowded London streets in broad day, and
I was bent on disappointing them. As we rode
on, they pretended ignorance of the various
buildings we passed. I pointed out Somerset
House, the Charing Cross Hotel, National
Gallery, Whitehall, &c.

Arrived at Westminster, Mr. Church dismissed
the cab. We could walk the rest of the
way, he said, and the cabman had told him
where the shooting gallery was. The two walked
one on either side of me. We came to a dirty
back street immediately behind the Westminster
Palace Hotel, down that, and to the right — a
dirtier street still. I said this was a strange
situation for a shooting gallery. " It was all
right when you got there," Mr. Church said ;
" it was kept very snug."

At the lower end of this street, I was not at
all ill pleased to see a policeman talking to a
woman. I tried my utmost to catch his eye as
we passed, but without success. We turned
down a third street of slimy houses, with here
and there the filthy red curtain of a low public
house. Sharp round the corner into a blind
alley. A dank greasy brick wall blocked the
other end of the place, so I knew we had
reached our destination. Scarcely more than
one of the dilapidated wooden houses in the
alley showed outward signs of being tenanted;
decayed shutters were nailed up to the
windows; the whole frontage was smothered in
filth and grime. The most villanous-looking
public house I ever set my eyes on was the last
house but one, nearest the wall.

"That's the gallery," said Church.

''Reckon it is," said my American friend,
"That's the identical crib where I made some
fine sheutin' last week. Come along."

I followed them to the door. A woman went
out as they entered. " Go and fetch —- and
—- ," two names I could not catch, I overheard
Church whisper. The men went in first,
I following. The beershop bar was a filthy
room, about six feet square, on the right as we
entered, with only a window to serve beer
through. The passage was long. About three
yards down it, was a partition with a half door,
very strong. I saw, too, that it had a strong
hasp or catch to it, without a handle, so that,
once past that, a victim was shut in like a
mouse in a trap. I stopped there.

"Come along, and look sharp," said my
American friend, with less twang than before;
"here's the gallery," and he opened a door on
the left.

I looked in at that open door. I saw a strong
room or cell, seven feet square, as near as I
can judge nothing but bare brick walls, no
window (it was lighted for the moment from
the passage), and deep sawdust on the floor.
Both the men were beside the door, standing
half in light half in shadow.

"Harry the Maid, and Churcher," I said, " I
know you both. It won't do, and you have
lost some valuable time!" I slammed the half
door to gain a moment's time from pursuit,
and took to my heels. I had been in the
court at Worcester when those two men were
tried for card-sharping. I never slackened speed
until I came upon the policeman, who was still
talking to the woman.

"Policeman," I said, "I think I can put
you on two people you want, perhaps—Harry
the Maid and Churcher."

"Harry the Maid," he replied, " is the greatest