neither blustered it away, nor frozen it away,
nor tied it up and put it away, nor smoothly
said pooh, pooh! to it, when it has been
shown to me "?

This is not what Rogers wants to know,
however. What Rogers wants to know, is,
whether you will clear the way here, some of
you, or whether you won't; because if you
don't do it right on end, he'll lock you up!
What! You are there, are you, Bob Miles?
You haven't had enough of it yet, haven't
you? You want three months more, do you?
Come away from that gentleman! What are
you creeping round there for?

"What am I a doing, thinn, Mr. Rogers ? "
says Bob Miles, appearing, villanous, at the
end of a lane of light, made by the lantern.

'' I 'll let you know pretty quick, if you
don't hook it. WILL you hook it?"

A sycophantic murmur rises from the
crowd. " Hook it, Bob, when Mr. Rogers
and Mr. Field tells you! Why don't you hook
it, when you are told to?"

The most importunate of the voices strikes
familiarly on Mr. Rogers's ear. He suddenly
turns his lantern on the owner.

"What! You are there, are you, Mister
Click? You hook it too—come?"

"What for?" says Mr. Click, discomfited,

"You hook it, will you!" says Mr. Rogers
with stern emphasis.

Both Click and Miles do " hook it," without
another word, or, in plainer English,
sneak away.

"Close up there, my men!" says Inspector
Field to two constables on duty who have
followed. " Keep together gentlemen; we
are going down here. Heads!"

Saint Giles's church strikes half-past ten.
We stoop low, and creep down a precipitous
flight of steps into a dark close cellar. There
is a fire. There is a long deal table. There
are benches. The cellar is full of company,
chiefly very young men in various conditions
of dirt and raggedness. Some are eating
supper. There are no girls or women present.
Welcome to Rats' Castle, gentlemen, and to
this company of noted thieves!

"Well, my lads! How are you, my lads?
What have you been doing to-day? Here's
some company come to see you, my lads!
There's a plate of beefsteak, Sir, for the
supper of a fine young man! And there's a
mouth for a steak, Sir! Why, I should be
too proud of such a mouth as that, if I had it
myself! Stand up and show it, Sir! Take
off your cap. There's a fine young man for a
nice little party, Sir! An't he?"

Inspector Field is the bustling speaker.
Inspector Field's eye is the roving eye that
searches every corner of the cellar as he talks.
Inspector Field's hand is the well-known
hand that has collared half the people here,
and motioned their brothers, sisters, fathers,
mothers, male and female friends, inexorably,
to New South Wales. Yet Inspector Field
stands in this den, the Sultan of the place.
Every thief here, cowers before him, like a
schoolboy before his schoolmaster. All watch
him, all answer when addressed, all laugh at
his jokes, all seek to propitiate him. This
cellar-company alone—to say nothing of the
crowd surrounding the entrance from the
street above, and making the steps shine with
eyes—is strong enough to murder us all, and
willing enough to do it; but, let Inspector
Field have a mind to pick out one thief here,
and take him; let him produce that ghostly
truncheon from his pocket, and say, with his
business-air, " My lad, I want you! " and all
Rats' Castle shall be stricken with paralysis,
and not a finger move against him, as he fits
the handcuffs on!

Where's the Earl of Warwick?—Here
he is, Mr. Field! Here's the Earl of Warwick,
Mr. Field!—O there you are, my Lord.
Come for'ard. There's a chest, Sir, not to
have a clean shirt on. An't it ? Take your hat
off, my Lord. Why, I should be ashamed if
I was you—and an Earl, too—to show myself
to a gentleman with my hat on!—The Earl
of Warwick laughs, and uncovers. All the
company laugh. One pickpocket, especially,
laughs with great enthusiasm. O what a
jolly game it is, when Mr. Field comes down—
and don't want nobody!

So, you are here, too, are you, you tall, grey,
soldierly-looking, grave man, standing by the
fire?—Yes, Sir. Good evening, Mr. Field!—
Let us see. You lived servant to a nobleman
once?—Yes, Mr. Field.—And what is it you
do now; I forget?—Well, Mr. Field, I job
about as well as I can. I left my employment
on account of delicate health. The family is
still kind to me. Mr. Wix of Piccadilly is
also very kind to me when I am hard up.
Likewise Mr. Nix of Oxford Street. I get a
trifle from them occasionally, and rub on as
well as I can, Mr. Field. Mr. Field's eye
rolls enjoyingly, for this man is a notorious
begging-letter writer.—Good night, my lads!
—Good night, Mr. Field, and thank'ee, Sir!

Clear the street here, half a thousand of
you! Cut it, Mrs. Stalker—none of that—
we don't want you! Rogers of the flaming
eye, lead on to the tramps' lodging-house!

A dream of baleful faces attends to the
door. Now, stand back all of you! In the
rear, Detective Serjeant plants himself, composedly
whistling, with his strong right arm
across the narrow passage. Mrs. Stalker, I
am something'd that need not be written
here, if you won't get yourself into trouble,
in about half a minute, if I see that face of
yours again!

Saint Giles's church clock, striking eleven,
hums through our hand from the dilapidated
door of a dark outhouse as we open it, and are
stricken back by the pestilent breath that
issues from within. Rogers, to the front with
the light, and let us look!

Ten, twenty, thirty—who can count them!
Men, women, children, for the most part
naked, heaped upon the floor like maggots in