Want, however, did not leave us long at rest.
Under pretence of going away again to get
"work," my master—leaving several of my
friends to take their chance, in administering
to the necessities of his father and sister—
went away. I remained to be "smashed"
(passed) by my master.

"Where are you going so fast, that you
don't recognise old friends?" were the words
addressed to the youth by a passer-by, as he
was crossing, at a violent pace, the nearest
bridge, in the direction of the Middlesex
bank.

The speaker was a young gentleman, aged
about twenty, not ill-looking, but with
features exhibiting that peculiar expression of
cunning, which is popularly described as
"knowing." He was arrayed in what the
police reports in the newspapers call, "the
height of fashion,"—that is to say, he had
travestied the style of the most daring dandies
of last year. He wore no gloves; but the
bloated rubicundity of his hands was relieved
by a profusion of rings, which — even without
the cigar in his mouth—were quite sufficient
to establish his claims to gentility.

Edward, my master, returned the civilities
of the stranger, and, turning back with
him, they agreed to "go somewhere."

"Have a weed," said Mr. Bethnal,
producing a well filled cigar-case. There was
no resisting. Edward took one.

"Where shall we go?" he said.

"I tell you what we'll do," said Mr. Bethnal,
who looked as if experiencing a novel
sensation — he evidently had an idea. "I tell
you what—we'll go and blow a cloud
with Joe, the pigeon-fancier. He lives
only a short distance off, not far from the
abbey; I want to see him on business, so we
shall kill two birds. He's one of us, you
know."

I now learned that Mr. Bethnal was a
new acquaintance, picked up under
circumstances (as a member of parliament, to
whom I once belonged, used to say in the
House) to which it is unnecessary farther to
allude.

"I was glad to hear of your luck, by-the-bye,"
said the gentleman in question, not
noticing his companion's wish to avoid the
subject. "I heard of it from Old Blinks.
Smashing's the thing, if one's a presentable
cove. You'd do deuced well in it. You've
only to get nobby togs and you'll do."

Mr. Joe, it appeared, in addition to his
ornithological occupations, kept a small shop
for the sale of coals and potatoes; he was also,
in a very small way, a timber merchant; for
several bundles of firewood were piled in
pyramids in his shed.

Mr. Bethnal's business with him was soon
despatched; although not until after the
latter had been assured by his friend, that
Edward was "of the right sort," with the
qualification that he was "rather green at
present;" and he was taken into Mr. Joe's
confidence, and also into Mr. Joe's upstairs
sanctum.

In answer to a request from Mr. Bethnal, in
a jargon, to me then unintelligible, Mr. Joe
produced from some mysterious depository
at the top of the house, a heavy canvas bag,
which he emptied on the table, discovering
a heap of shillings and half-crowns, which,
by a sympathetic instinct, I immediately
detected to be of my own species.

"What do you think of these?" said Mr.
Bethnal to his young friend.

Edward expressed some astonishment that
Mr. Joe should be in the line.

"Why, bless your eyes," said that
gentleman; "you don't suppose I gets my
livelihood out of the shed down stairs, nor the
pigeons neither. You see, these things are
only dodges. If I lived here like a gentleman
—that is to say, without a occupation—the
p'lese would soon be down upon me. They'd
be obleeged to take notice on me. As it is, I
comes the respectable tradesman, who's above
suspicion—and the pigeons helps on the
business wonderful."

"How is that?"

"Why, I keeps my materials—the pewter
and all that—on the roof, in order to be out
o' the way, in case of a surprise. If I was
often seed upon the roof, a-looking arter
such-like matters, inquisitive eyes would be
on the look out. The pigeons is a capital
blind. I 'm believed to be dewoted to my
pigeons, out o' which I takes care it should
be thought I makes a little fortun—and that
makes a man respected. As for the pigeon
and coal and 'tatur businesses, them's dodges.
Gives a opportoonity of bringing in queer-
looking sackfuls o' things, which otherwise
would compel the 'spots'—as we calls the
p'lese—to come down on us."

"Compel them! but surely they come
down whenever they've a suspicion?"

"You needn't a' told me he was green,"
said Mr. Joe to his elder acquaintance, as he
glanced at the youth with an air of pity.
"In the first place, we takes care to keep the
vorkshop almost impregnable; so that, if
they attempts a surprise, we has lots o' time
to get the things out o' the way. In the next,
if it comes to the scratch—which is a matter
of almost life and death to us—we stands no
nonsense."

Mr. Joe pointed to an iron crowbar, which
stood in the chimney-corner.

"I ses nothing to criminate friends, you
know," he added significantly to Mr. Bethnal
"but you remember wot Sergeant Higsley
got?"

Mr. Bethnal nodded assent, and Mr. Joe
volunteered for the benefit and instruction of
Edward an account of the demise, and funeral
of the late Mr. Sergeant Higsley. That
official having been promoted, was ambitious
of being designated, in the newspapers,
"active and intelligent," and gave information
against a gang of coiners; "Wot wos