are for the most part anxious and pre-occupied.
The policemen drink; but not jovially.
They are too busy and too conscious of the
responsibility of their position to be merry.
They do not speak much, but are spoken to.
No Bacchanalian song was ever heard to echo
through Pybuss's premises. You seldom see
a drunken man there. Moody anxious faces
surround the bar. The group seldom exceed
two in number, never three. No pipes are
smoked in the parlour; nor are politics
discussed, or general news touched upon. The
all absorbing, engrossing topic, the vital
subject that brings all these ravenous drinkers
to Pybuss's is Law—Criminal Law, as
expounded by police magistrates and their chief
clerks.

Law has brought that slatternly woman-
girl with the faded shawl, and the more faded
baby at her breast to Pybuss's; and it is of
Law that she is so eagerly, earnestly talking
with the shabby old man in the rusty great-
coat buttoned up to his chin, the beer and
ink-stained white hat with the limp brim,
who holds a roll of greasy papers in one
hand, and a rusty chisel in the other. This
shabby old man is a lawyer; and if you ask
me (as you might reasonably do) what on
earth a lawyer could possibly want with a
chisel, I cannot answer you, for I do not
know. He holds one nevertheless, and always
holds some such eccentric or unprofessional
tool—one day a lantern, another a bundle
in a blue birdseye handkerchief with him.
These may be links in evidence—pièces de
conviction, may be; but I leave you free to
conjecture. For all his shabby threadbare
appearance, Mr. Mandate is a lawyer—a
legitimately certificated attorney—in extended
practice and of very considerable repute. He
is (not to speak irreverentially) a first-rate
thieves' lawyer—the very hope and stay of
gentlemen in trouble. Let an indictment be
ever so warily drawn, Mandate can pick a
hole in it, if anybody can. Let a case be ever
so strong against you, Mandate will find a
loophole of escape, if anybody will. Hence
his fame.

The slatternly woman has her hands rather
full of business just now. Her Tom is in
trouble. He has been wanted for a considerable
time on divers little matters of larceny;
but managed to evade dexterously the glance
of that significant eye, which of ail eyes may
say "Never asleep:" the police bull's-eye.
Last Tuesday, however, at the unseasonable
hour of three in the morning, being
found by J 86 under slightly suspicious
circumstances, in the front area of a house
in Belgravia, and being found to have in
his possession divers articles of property—
undoubtedly his own—that is to say, sundry
jemmies, crowbars, and centre-bits, together
with a set of skeleton keys, and a wax taper,
which latter article, albeit exceedingly
harmless in itself, is, when taken into conjunction
with the jemmies, &c., extremely significative
of housebreaking: being also found, with, in
addition, certain other property—undoubtedly
not his own—including a silver candlestick
half a Yorkshire pie, a bottle of pickles, and
fish-slice "upon" him: being moreover, unable
to give any satisfactory account of himself,
more than that he "had lost his way," Tom,
otherwise Thomas Hulker, but more familiarly
known as "Tom the Sandman," was removed
to the station, and charged next morning at
the police-court with being found on certain
premises, with intent to commit a felony
thereon. A summary conviction involving
some amount of imprisonment and hard
labour would probably have fallen to Mr.
Hulker's lot, had not Inspector Muffles of
the A division, and Inspector Carnifex, and
that active officer, Sergeant Knockles, of the
detective force, all happened to have been
present on business of their own that
morning at the police-court; and, all
wanting Mr. Hulker, and being all
provided with pressing enquiries after his health
(printed to make them more impressive)
emanating from Colonel Verges and Sir
Lictor Fasces, the Commissioners of Police,
did greet Mr. Hulker with so warm a
reception, and gave him so strong a character
that the worthy magistrate honoured him by
sending his case to be investigated by a
higher tribunal, and furthermore
distinguished by changing the residence he had
primarily fixed upon; that is to say, the
plebeian House of Correction, to a more
aristocratic abode—the gaol of Newgate. So,
bound for Newgate in the police van, is
"Tom the Sandman," this fine afternoon; and
here is slatternly Sue, his patient drudge and
helpmate, his constant, untiring, affectionate,
disreputable partner, come to consult Mr.
Mandate as to Tom's case. Tom is no stranger
to Mr. M.; that practitioner has done him
many a good turn for a consideration, be it
understood; but he shakes his head this
time, and says he is afraid it is a bad case—a
very bad case; but he will see what is to be
done. Tom must expect to go across the
water this time; he must, indeed. He
(Mr. Mandate) will do his best to "square" it
for ten years or so; but if he (Tom) escapes
being a "lifer," he will only have to thank
him for it. When he makes this grim
annuouncement—when he so plainly intimates
that the burglar must expect to be
transported for some term of years—you should
watch the expression of terrified love, and
grief, and utter despair, that works fitfully,
now heightening, now paling, now fighting
feebly with a sickly smile of hope on the
face of his miserable wife.

Slatternly Sue will wait patiently at
Pybuss's bar till all the charges at the police-
court are disposed of.  Then she will see her
Tom off in the prison van—will try to catch
his sodden eye, will try to touch his manacled
hand. She has very little money left; for I
saw her unfold a greasy rag just now, and