"Sir!"

"Keep your eye on her.Take care she
don't make away with anything—and send
for Mrs. Green."

The accused sits in a corner of the dock,
quite composed, with her arms under her
dirty shawl, and says nothing. The Inspector
folds a charge-sheet, and dips his pen in the
ink.

"Now, sir, your name, if you please?

"Ba—a."

"That can't be your name, sir. What name
does he say, Constable?"

The second Constable "seriously inclines
his ear;" the gent being a short man, and
the second constable a tall one. "He says
his name's Bat, sir." (Getting at it after a
good deal of trouble.)

"Where do you live, Mr. Bat?"

"Lamber."

"And what are you?—what business are
you, Mr. Bat?"

"Fesher," says Mr. Bat, again collecting
dignity.

"Profession, is it? Very good, sir. What's
your profession?"

"Solirrer," returns Mr. Bat.

"Solicitor, of Lambeth. Have you lost
anything besides your watch, sir?"

"I am nor aware—lost—any—arrickle—
prorrery," says Mr. Bat.

The Inspector has been looking at the
watch.

"What do you value this watch at, sir?"

"Ten pound," says Mr. Bat, with
unexpected promptitude.

"Hardly worth so much as that, I should
think?"

"Five pound five," says Mr. Bat."I  doro
how much. I 'm not par-TICK-ler," this word
costs Mr. Bat a tremendous effort, "abow
the war. It's not my war. It's a frez of
my."

"If it belongs to a friend of yours, you
wouldn't like to lose it, I suppose?"

"I doro," says Mr. Bat, "I'm nor any
ways par-TICK-ler abow the war. It's a
frez of my;" which he afterwards repeats at
intervals, scores of times. Always as an
entirely novel idea.

Inspector writes. Brings charge-sheet to
window. Reads same to Mr. Bat.

"You charge this woman,sir,"—her name,
age, and address have been previously taken
—"with robbing you of your watch. I won't
trouble you to sign the sheet, as you are not
in good writing order. You'll have to be
here this morning—it's now two—at a quarter
before ten."

"Never get up 'till har par," says Mr. Bat,
with decision.

"You'll have to be here this morning,"
repeats the Inspector placidly, "at a quarter
before ten. If you don't come, we shall
have to send for you, and that might be
unpleasant. Stay a bit. Now, look here. I
have written it down. 'Mr Bat to be in Bow
Street, quarter before ten.' Or I'll even say,
to make it easier to you, a quarter past. There!
'Quarter past ten.' Now, let me fold this up
and put it in your pocket; and when your
landlady, or whoever it is at home, finds it
there, she 'll take care to call you."

All of which is elaborately done for Mr.
Bat. A constable who has skilfully taken a
writ out of the unconscious Mr. Bat's pocket
in the meantime, and has discovered from the
indorsement that he has given his name and
address correctly, receives instructions to put
Mr. Bat into a cab and send him home.

"And, Constable," says the Inspector to the
first man, musing over the watch as he speaks,
"do you go back to Lincoln's Inn Fields, and
look about, and you 'll find, somewhere, the
little silver pin belonging to the handle. She
has done it in the usual way, and twisted th
pin right out."

"What mawrer is it? " says Mr. Bat,
staggering back again, "T' morrow-mawrer?"

"Not to-morrow morning. This morning."

"This mawrer? " says Mr. Bat. " How
can it be this mawrer? War is this aur abow?"

As there is no present probability of his
discovering "what it is all about," he is conveyed
to his cab; and a very indignant matron with
a very livid face, a trembling lip, and a
violently heaving breast, presents herself.

"Which I wishes to complain immediate on
Pleeseman forty-two and fifty-three and
insistes on the charge being took; and that I will
substantiate before the magistrates to-morrow
morning, and what is more will prove and
which is saying a great deal sir!"

"You needn't be in a passion, you know,
here, ma'am. Everything will be done correct."

"Which I am not in a passion sir and everythink
shalt be done correct, if you please!"
drawing herself up with a look designed to
freeze the whole division. "I make a charge
immediate," very rapidly, "against pleesemen
forty-two and fifty-three, and insistes on the
charge being took."

"I can't take it till I know what it is,"
returns the patient Inspector, leaning on the
window-sill, and making no hopeless effort, as
yet, to write it down. "How was it, ma'am?"

"This is how it were, sir. I were standing
at the door of my own 'ouse."

"Where is your house, ma'am?"

"Where is my house, sir?" with the
freezing look.

"Yes, ma'am. Is it in the Strand, for
instance."

"No, sir," with indignant triumph. "It is
not in the Strand!"

"Where then, ma'am?"

"Where then, sir? " with severe sarcasm.
"I ope it is in Doory Lane."

"In Drury Lane."And what is your name,
ma'am?"

"My name, sir?" with inconceivable scorn.
"My name is Megby."

"Mrs. Megby?"

"Sir, I ope so!" with the previous sarcasm.