father, I am sure you will be careful how you
wake him. If he was to make a wild rush,
and begin to dance about, on the Platform
in the Hall, I don't know where he'd stop."

Little John, getting on his legs, began
buttoning his jacket with great firmness and
vigor, preparatory to action. Master C. J.
London, with a dejected aspect and an
occasional sob, went on with his exercise.

THE JOLLY BURGLARS.

IN the back lanes of a village, some two-
and-twenty miles from London, there stands,
or rather lurks, a hedge alehouse, called the
Overthrown Cart. From an abrupt corner
of ruined barns and pig-sties, on one side, and
a stagnant pool on the other, in the high
road through the village, a lane opens its
ragged, bushy mouth, and runs straggling
away for a couple of miles, when it widens
out into a barren common. These two
lonely miles are enclosed on both sides by
squalid hedges, broken fences, the end of a
neglected garden wall, a dry ditch, and a
turnip-field. At the right hand side of the
garden-wall stood an old summer-house built
of brick, like a little tower, the upper story
being intended as a place to sit in, and enjoy
the prospect of seven green fields, and a cow-
shed, with nothing particular in the distance.
This ruined summer-house was now overgrown
with ivy, and had become the delightful
abode of owls and bats. By the side of
this part of the garden-wall, a pathway
through down-trodden thistles and nettles
ran sloping and winding till it opened into a
narrow lane between dark high hedges,
amidst which—and standing rather back—is
the little alehouse known to its frequenters
as the Cart. It looks just like the ugly half-
hidden nest of some strange bird of prey.

The alehouse stood back, in a gap between
the two high ends of the hedge. A ditch
ran along the hedge, over which a dirty
board was placed by way of a bridge. The
alehouse was built of old boards and worn-out
timbers; it was thatched, and in colour as
black as dirt and smoke, and rottenness from
the rains and damp, could make it. On a
little piece of board had been painted a cart
turned topside turvy, which was nailed up
close under the projecting thatch, by way of
a "sign." In front of the lower window was
an open space between the house and the
hedge, of some eight or nine feet distance,
where a flat board nailed on a tressel, served
for a table, and a plank on two low posts, as
a seat. A three-legged stool, and an inverted
washing-tub, afforded accommodation for two
more visitors, if needed.

On this plank, and this stool, sat three men
each with a pipe in his mouth. A brown
jug with a broken nose, was upon the table,
two pewter pint pots, and a tall white
mug. The men—three well-known fellows—
were James Humble, John Crick, and
Ebernezer Pye, commonly called Lanky Go. As
their persons are not likely to be so familiar
to the reader, as they are to the country
magistrates, before whom they have often
been brought to little purpose, we will give a
sketch of each of them.

James Humble is a man of about two-and-
forty, and rather short of stature, but of
great breadth of shoulders, with a deep chest,
and large arms, and thick muscular legs. He
is a very powerful man, and of more activity
than would be expected from so thick a frame.
His features are heavy, and he has the look
of a lowering bull. But sometimes while he
speaks, the whole face lights up with a most
malevolent and daring expression, as though
he was ready to commit some ruthless act of
violence. He has very short, thick, poodle-
dog hair, a sunburnt complexion, and the two
front teeth gone.

John Crick is about thirty-five years of
age, and of the middle height. He is narrow-
shouldered and stoops. His legs are well
made, from hip to heel; but his arms seem
rather deformed. He has red hair, thin
red whiskers, a speckled complexion, a
sharp turned-up nose, very small and piercing
grey eyes, and a large mouth, with very
large yellow teeth. His hands are small,
and the fingers thin, bony, and in a continual
fidget.

Ebenezer Pye is fifty-two years of age.
He sits like a very short man; but when he
stands upright he is six feet two; his height
being all in his legs. As he walks, his stride
is immense, and he has a gaunt strange look,
like that of some antediluvian bird. His
face is very sallow, and his large hands are as
yellow as a kite's foot. He has a quiet, grave,
rather thoughtful expression, and habitually
gazes down his knees when he speaks to you.
He has a bad cast in one eye, and has lost the
forefinger of his right hand. He is continually
occupied in blowing a sort of inward
whistling to himself as he sits looking on the
ground.

The dress of these three men, except that
Crick wore a fashionably cut drab frock-coat,
with a large blotch of grease in the middle of
the back, was of the most blackguard kind,
from top to toe, and still worse in its filthy
neglect. It was evident they had been sleeping
in their clothes for weeks, without once taking
them off, or even washing their hands and
faces.

These three fellows were burglars, and they
were now engaged in settling the immediate
operations of a burglary which they had been
planning for some weeks past.

"And she told you this?" said Humble,
uplifting his lowering gaze, and staring in
Crick's face, half interrogatively, and partly
repeating his words, in order to be sure.

"And she told me this;" repeated Crick,
as if put on his oath, and resolved not to
contradict himself.

"Kitchen-maid, is she?" proceeded Humble.