—now a knot of lads with pale faces, long
greasy hair, and short pipes. Thieves,
my friend— unmistakeable thieves.

There are no professional beggars about—
what on earth is there for them to be out for?
The beggees are gone home to their suppers and
their beds, and the beggars are gone home to
their suppers and their beds. They have all
got beds, bless you!

Some of the doorways have heaps of
something huddled up within them; and ever
and anon a policeman will come and stir
them up with his truncheon, or more
probably with his boot. Then you will see a
chaotic movement of legs and arms, and
hear a fretful crooning with an Irish accent.
Should the guardian of the night insist in the
enforcement of his " move on " decree—the
legs and arms will stagger a few paces
onward, and as soon as the policeman's back is
turned, sink into another doorway — to be
routed out perchance again in another quarter
of an hour by another truncheon or another
boot.

Half-past one by the clock of St. Mary-le-
Strand, and I am in Charles Street, Drury
Lane. It is a very nasty dirty little street
this — full worthy, I take it, to challenge
competition with Church Lane or Buckeridge
Street. Something, however, a feeling
indefinable, but strong, prompts me to pursue its
foul and devious course for some score of
yards. Then I stop.

"Lodgings for single men at fourpence per
night." This agreeable distich greets me,
depictured on the panes of a window,
behind which a light is burning. I step into
the road to have a good look at the establishment
that proffers the invitation. It is a
villanous ramshackle house — a horrible cut-
throat-looking den, to be sure: but then
the fourpence! Think of that, Master
Brooke! There is a profusion of handbills
plastered on the door-jambs, which I can read
by the light of a gas-lamp a few paces off. I
decipher a flattering legend of separate beds,
every convenience for cooking, and hot-water
always ready. I am informed that this is the
real model lodging-house; and I read, moreover,
some derisive couplets relative to the
Great Spitalfields Lodging-House, which is
styled a " Bastile." I begin fingering,
involuntarily, the eight-pence in my pocket. Heaven
knows what horrible company I may fall
into; but then, fourpence! and my feet are
so tired. Jacta est alea, I will have
fourpenn'orth.

That portion of the reading public who
were on duty with Inspector Field some
weeks ago, know what the " deputy " of a
tramps' lodging-house is like. As, however,
I come to sleep, and not to inspect, I am not
abused, but merely inspected and admitted.
I am informed that, with the addition my
company will make, the establishment is full.
I pay my fourpence, without the performance
of which ceremony I do not get beyond the
filthy entrance passage. Then, the " deputy"
bars the door, and, brandishing an iron
candlestick as though it were a broad-sword,
bids.me follow him.

What makes me, when we have ascended
the rotten staircase, when I have entered my
bedchamber — when the " deputy " has even
bid me a wolfish good-night — what makes me
rush down stairs, and, bursting through the
passage, beg him to let me out for Heaven's
sake? What makes me, when the " deputy '*
has unbarred the door, and bade me go out,
and be something'd, and has not given me
back my fourpence, stand sick and stupified
in the street, till I wake up to a disgusted
consciousness, by being nearly knocked down
by a group of staggering roysterers, howling
out a drunken chorus?

It was not the hang-dog look of the
"deputy," or the cut-throat appearance of the
house. It was not even the aspect of the
score or more ragged wretches who were to
be my sleeping companions. It was, in plain
English, the smell of the bugs. Ugh!—the
place was alive with them. They crawled on
the floor — they dropped from the ceiling — they
ran mad races on the walls! Give me the
key of the street, and let me wander forth
again.

I have not got further than Broad Street,
St. Giles's, however, before I begin to think
that I have been a little hasty. I feel so tired,
so worn, so full of sleep now, that I can't help
thinking I might have fallen off into heavy
sleep yonder, and that the havock committed
by the bugs on my carcase might have been
borne unfelt. It is too late now, however.
The fourpence is departed, and I dare not.
face the deputy again.

Two in the morning, and still black, thick,
impervious night, as I turn into Oxford
Street, by Meux's Brewery. The flitting
shadows that seemed to be of women, have
grown fewer. A quarter past two, and I
have gained the Regent Circus, and can take
my choice, either for a stroll in the
neighbourhood of the Regent's Park, or a quiet
lounge in the district of the Clubs. I choose
the latter, and shamble down Regent Street
towards Piccadilly.

I feel myself slowly, but surely, becoming
more of a regular night prowler—a houseless,
hopeless, vagrant, every moment. I feel my feet
shuffle, my shoulders rise towards my ears;
my head goes on one side; I hold my hands
in a crouching position before me; I no longer
walk, I prowl. Though it is July, I shiver.
As I stand at the corner of Conduit Street
(all night prowlers affect corners), a passing
figure, in satin and black lace, flings me a
penny. How does the phantom know that I
have got the key of the street? I am. not in
rags, and yet my plight must be evident. So
I take the penny.

Where are the policemen, I wonder. I am
walking in the centre of the road, yet, from
end to end of the magnificent street, I cannot