will visit every beat in the division, to see
that the men are at their duties. The other
Inspector remains, to take the charges.

A small man, who gives his name, Mr. Spills,
(or for whom that name will do in this place
as well as another), presents himself at the
half-open window to complain of a gentleman
now present, who is stricken in years, bald,
well dressed, staid in countenance, respectable
in appearance, and exceedingly drunk.
He gazes at his accuser from behind the
dock, with lack-lustre penitence, as that
gentleman elaborates his grievance to the
patient Inspector; who, out of a tangle of
digressions and innuendoes dashed with
sparkling scraps of club-room oratory,
extracts—not without difficulty—the substance
of the complaint, and reduces it to a charge
of "drunk and disorderly." The culprit, it
seems, not half an hour ago—purely by
accident—found his way into Craven Street,
Strand. Though there are upwards of forty
doors in Craven street, he would kick, and
thump, and batter the complainant's door. No
other door would do. The complainant don't
know why; the delinquent don't know why;
nobody knows why. No entreaty, no expostulation,
no threat, could induce him to transfer
his favours to any other door in the
neighbourhood. He was a perfect stranger to Mr.
Spills; yet, when Mr. Spills presented himself at
the gate of his castle in answer to the thundering
summons, the prisoner insisted on finishing
the evening at the domestic supper-table of
the Spills family. Finally, the prisoner
emphasised his claim on Mr. Spills's hospitality
by striking Mr. Spills on the mouth. This led
to his being immediately handed over to the
custody of a P. C.

The defendant answers the usual questions
as to name and condition, with a drowsy
indifference peculiar to the muddled. But, when
the Inspector asks his age, a faint ray of his
spirit shines through him. What is that to the
police? Have they anything to do with the
census? They may lock him up, fine him,
put him in jail, work him on the tread-mill, if
they like. All this is in their power; he
knows the law well enough, Sir; but they
can't make him tell his age—and he won't—
won't do it, Sir!—At length, after having
been mildly pressed, and cross-examined, and
coaxed, he passes his fingers through the few
grey hairs that fringe his bald head, and
suddenly roars:

"Well then:—Five-and-twenty!"

All the policemen laugh. The prisoner—
but now triumphant in his retort—checks
himself, endeavours to stand erect, and
surveys them with defiance.

"Have you anything about you, you would
like us to take care of? " This is the usual
apology for searching a drunken prisoner:
searches cannot be enforced except in cases
of felony.

Before the prisoner can answer, one of
the Reserves eases him of his property. Had
his adventures been produced in print, they
could scarcely have been better described
than by the following articles:—a pen-knife,
an empty sandwich-box, a bunch of keys, a
bird's-eye handkerchief, a sovereign, fivepence
in half-pence, a tooth-pick, and a pocket-book.
From his neck is drawn a watch-guard, cut
through,—no watch.

When he is sober, he will be questioned as
to his loss; a description of the watch, with
its maker's name and number will be extracted
from him; it will be sent round to every
station; and, by this time to-morrow night,
every pawnbroker in the Metropolis will be
asked whether such a watch has been offered
as a pledge? Most probably it will be
recovered and restored before he has time to
get tipsy again—and when he has, he will
probably lose it again.

"When shall I have to appear before the
magistrate?" asks the prosecutor.

"At ten o'clock to-morrow morning,"—and
so ends that case.

There is no peace for the Inspector. During
the twenty-four hours he is on duty, his
window is constantly framing some new
picture. For some minutes, a brown face
with bright black eyes has been peering
impatiently from under a quantity of tangled
black hair and a straw hat behind Mr. Spills.
It now advances to the window.

"Have you got e'er a gipsy woman here,
sir?"

"No gipsy woman to-night."

"Thank'ee, sir:" and the querist retires to
repeat this new reading of "Shepherds, I
have lost my love," at every other station-
house, till he finds her—and bails her.

Most of the constables who have been
relieved from duty by the nine o'clock men
have now dropped in, and are detailing
anything worthy of a report to their respective
serjeants. The serjeants enter these occurrences
on a printed form.  Only one is presented
now:—

"P. C. 67 reports that, at 5½ P. M., a boy, named
Philip Isaac was knocked down, in Bow Street, by
a horse belonging to Mr. Parks, a Newsvender.
He was taken to Charing X Hospital, and sent
home, slightly bruised."

The Inspector has not time to file this document
before an earnest-looking man comes
to the window. Something has happened
which evidently causes him more pain than
resentment.

"I am afraid we have been robbed. My
name is Parker, of the firm of Parker and Tide,
Upholsterers.This afternoon at three o'clock,
our clerk handed to a young man who is our
collector, (he is only nineteen), about ninety-six
pounds, to take to the bank. He ought to
have been back in about fifteen minutes; but
he hadn't come back at six o'clock. I went to
the bank to see if the cash had been paid
in, and it had not."

"Be good enough to describe his person