of them? A boy had been despatched by the
old gardener, to run as fast as his legs would
carry him, up into the high-road, and try and
find the horse patrol, while he himself made
his way to the constable's house.

Both of these were, to a certain extent,
successful. The boy was lucky enough to
get sight of the horse patrol. Being unable
to contain himself after his recent excitement,
the little fellow instantly began to cry out
"Patrol! patrol! Thieves! O Thieves!"

The guardian of the high-way pulled up
his horse, but before the boy could reach him
the patrol heard the sound of footsteps of
men running along the road through the
village. Making sure these were the thieves
the boy meant, who were now effecting their
escape, he set spurs to his horse, and galloped
after the sound of the retreating footsteps.

The old gardener, "dead beat" from loss of
breath, arrived at the constable's house. Here
he was met by Mrs. Pringle, in her huge
night-cap, who informed him that her
husband had gone out after some villains who
were breaking all the windys in the village,
and that the horse-patrol had gone after them
too—but they would soon be back, she hoped.

The chase of Pringle, however, was not
destined so soon to come to a close. Down
the long straggling back lanes did the robber,
with the great box, run most vigorously, and
the constable after him, panting and gasping,
and with one hand pressed to his side. And
now the sound of a horse's hoofs is behind
them,—and on it comes, but not very fast, as
the lane is so dark and slippery, and down
hill. The patrol's bull's eye lanthorn is very
useful. It casts a great stream of light
before them. He soon finds out that the
first man he comes up with, is Pringle—but
what is that which retreats! It is a large
majestic figure attired in coloured robes, with
a smiling countenance, and a fine high-curled
wig—and running down the lane backwards!

The lane suddenly becomes yet more
precipitous—and alas! for human powers, even
in a promising young squire, down falls the
figure flat;—and flatly lies, but still looks up
with a courteous smile—the august semblance
of His Majesty George the Fourth!

They picked up the strange complexity of
man and sign; and by this time, the man was
almost in as insensible a condition of being.
Finding it was young Squire Tatman, the two
parish authorities did what they thought best
"under their difficult circumstances." They
helped him up—wiped the mud off his face—
placed him on the horse, the patrol walking
by the side, to hold him up, and the constable
walking behind, humbly carrying the sign. In
this way they escorted the young gentleman
to his own house—good four miles from the
place where they found him.

How has it fared all this time with the
burglars at the Framptons? Excellently
ill. They have collected all the plate; all
the watches, chains, rings, and trinkets; all
the money in the house, and all the light,
portable valuables; and they have brought
all down to the kitchen, where Humble is
placing them in a couple of small sacks, and a
canvas bag, while Crick is setting out the
table with the remains of the beef, and veal,
and goose and ham, &c. He has also found
bread and cheese, and cold salmon, and a
preserved gooseberry tart; and he is now going
with a candle to the cellar for a dozen of
wine.

Lanky Go has issued forth into the lawn at
the back of the house—passed through one of
the side shrubberies, and approached a hedge.
He gives a low, smothered whistle. The
hedge is pushed aside,—and a rough, dirty-
muzzled dog-like face with a red nose, and red
projecting lips, is thrust through the aperture.
The head has a little grey carter's hat
upon it, and the thick red lips are sucking the
brass-headed handle of a whip, while the eyes
seem to listen as much as the ears.

Lanky bent forward—"Give her the rest o'
the corn." With this brief order, which at
once showed the driver that all had gone well,
the brute's face was withdrawn from the hole
in the hedge, and Lanky returned to his
friends.

The table was, by this, time, well covered
with "all the dainties of the season," and with
a squadron of black bottles, fresh from the
wine-cellar. Crick was digging out a pigeon-
pie, and Humble was lying back in a chair,
wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

They had worked hard in one way, and now
they fell to work in another. The execution
they did upon the various contents of the
table, in the course of a quarter of an hour,
nobody but a jolly burglar would believe.
They swallowed mouthfuls that would have
done credit to a Clown in a pantomime, and
drank port wine (Mr. Frampton's finest old
port—Bin D. 2) in beer tumblers. As for
champagne, they knocked the necks off the
bottles, and let the wine spout down their
throats. At length, Lanky Go, filling his
tumbler with a bumper of Madeira, took it in
his right hand, and slowly rising, thus
addressed the company:—

"Gentlemen, schoolfellows, and friends!"
said he,—"I rise, at this early hour of the
evening, in wirtue of my being the holdest
among you, and therefore most qualificationed
to state a moral proverb like this—as it's
good to be merry—and wise. We have done
our duties to-night—our carriage and orse
and coachman are a-waiting for us under a
dark hedge close by. Let us therefore take
up our little property, and go our ways. But
afore we go, I beg to persume to give you a
lyall toast. Here's to the elth and appiness
of her most gracious Queen Wictory, and her
wise Members of Parliament, who will not
allow the country gentry to have a Rural
Police to look arter them, and destroy our
trade. And in this toast I begs to include
the name of our worthy host, Mr. Frampton,