and dress, sir," says the Inspector, taking out
a printed form called "a Route."

These are minutely detailed and, recorded.
"Has he any friends or relatives in London?"

The applicant replies by describing the
residence and condition of the youth's father
and uncle. The Inspector orders "Ninety-two"
(one of the Reserves) to go with the
gentleman, "and see what he can make of
it." The misguided delinquent's chance of
escape will be lessened every minute. Not
only will his usual haunts be visited in the
course of the night by Ninety-two; but
his description will be known, before
morning, by every police officer on duty. This
Route,—which is now being copied by a
Reserve into a book—will be passed on,
presently, to the next station. There, it will again
be copied; passed on to the next; copied;
forwarded—and so on until it shall have made
the circuit of all the Metropolitan stations.
In the morning, that description will be read
to the men going on duty. "Long neck, light
hair, brown clothes, low crowned hat," and
so on.

A member of the E division throws a paper
on the window-sill, touches his hat, exclaims,
"Route, sir!" and departs.

The Routes are coming in all night long.
A lady has lost her purse in an omnibus.
Here is a description of the supposed thief—
a woman who sat next to the lady—and here
are the dates and numbers of the bank notes,
inscribed on the paper with exactness. On
the back, is an entry of the hour at which
the paper was received at, and sent away
from, every station to which it has yet been.
A Reserve is called in to book the
memorandum; and in a quarter of an hour he is
off with it to the station next on the
Route. Not only are these notices read to
the men at each relief, but the most
important of them are inserted in the "Police
Gazette," the especial literary organ of the
Force, which is edited by one of its members.

A well dressed youth about eighteen years
of age, now leans over the window to bring
himself as near to the Inspector as possible.
He whispers in a broad Scotch accent:

"I am destitute. I came up from Scotland
to find one Saunders M'Alpine, and I can't
find him, and I have spent all my money. I
have not a farthing left. I want a night's
lodging."

"Reserve!" The inspector wastes no words
in a case like this.

"Sir."

"Go over to the relieving officer and ask
him to give this young man a night in the
casual ward."

The policeman and the half-shamed
suppliant go out together.

"That is a genuine tale," remarks the
Inspector.

"Evidently a fortune-seeking young Scotchman,"
we venture to conjecture, "who has
come to London upon too slight an invitation,
and with too slender a purse. He has an
honest face, and won't know want long. He
may die Lord Mayor."

The Inspector is not sanguine in such cases.
"He may" he says.

There is a great commotion in the outer
office. Looking through the window, we
see a stout bustling woman who announces
herself as a complainant, three female
witnesses, and two policemen. This solemn
procession moves towards the window; yet we
look in vain for a prisoner. The prisoner is
in truth invisible on the floor of the dock, so
one of his guards is ordered to mount him
on a bench. He is a handsome, dirty,
curly-headed boy about the age of seven, though
he says he is nine. The prosecutrix makes
her charge.

"Last Sunday, sir, (if you please, sir, I keep
a cigar and stationer's shop,) this here little
creetur breaks one of my windows, and the
moment after, I loses a box of paints—"

"Value?" asks the Inspector, already
entering the charge, after one sharp look at
the child.

"Value, sir? Well, I 'll say eight-pence.
Well, sir, to-night again, just before shutting
up, I hears another pane go smash. I looks
out, and I sees this same little creetur a
running aways. I runs after him, and hands
him over to the police."

The child does not exhibit the smallest
sign of fear or sorrow. He does not even
whimper. He tells his name and address, when
asked them, in a straightforward business-like
manner, as if he were quite used to the whole
proceeding. He is locked up; and the
prosecutrix is desired to appear before the
Magistrate in the morning to substantiate her
charge.

"A child so young, a professional thief!"

"Ah! These are the most distressing
cases we have to deal with. The number of
children brought here, either as prisoners, or
as having been lost, is from five to six thousand
per annum. Juvenile crime and its fore-runner—
the neglect of children by their
parents is still on the increase. That's the
experience of the whole Force."

"If some place were provided at which
neglected children could be made to pass
their time, instead of in the market and
streets—say in industrial schools provided by
the nation—juvenile delinquency would very
much decrease?—"

"I believe, sir, (and I speak the sentiments
of many experienced officers in the Force,) that
it would be much lessened, and that the
expense of such establishments would be saved
in a very short time out of the police and
county rates. Let alone morality altogether."

And the Inspector resumes his writing.
For a little while we are left to think, to
the ticking of the clock.

There are six hundred and fifty-six gentlemen
in the English House of Commons
assembling in London. There is not one of