While the policeman and the boy lay thus biding their time in the shrubbery, Bones got over the wall and quietly inspected the premises.

"I'll let him begin, and take him in the act," whispered the policeman.

"But he's an awful big, strong, determined feller," said Pax.

"So am I," returned the policeman, with a smile, which was lost in the dark.

Now it so happened that Miss Lillycrop, who had been spending that day with Miss Stivergill, had been induced to spend the night also with her friend. Of course these two had much to talk about—ladies generally have in such circumstances—and they were later than usual in going to bed. Mr Bones was therefore, much against his will, obliged to delay the execution of his plans. Little dreaming that two admirers lay in ambush about fifty yards off, he retired to a dark corner behind a bit of old wall, and there, appropriately screened by a laurel bush, lit his pipe and enjoyed himself.

"My dear," said Miss Stivergill to her friend about midnight, "we must go to bed. Do you go up to my room; I'll follow after looking round."

It was the nightly practice of this lady to go over her premises from cellar to garret, to make quite sure that the servant had fastened every bolt and bar and lock. She began with the cellars. Finding everything right there, she went to the dining-room windows.

"Ha! the gipsy!—unbolted, and the shutters open!" exclaimed Miss Stivergill, fastening the bolt.

"H'm! The old fool," thought the burglar, observing her tall square figure while thus engaged, "might as well bolt the door of Newgate with a steel pen. Cottage window-gear is meant for show, not for service, old girl."

"I look round regularly every night," observed Miss Stivergill, entering her bedroom, in which Miss Lillycrop usually occupied a chair bed when on a visit to The Rosebud. "You've no idea how careless servants are ('Haven't I, just?' thought her friend), and although I have no personal fear of burglars, I deem it advisable to interpose some impediments to their entrance."

"But what would you do if they did get in?" asked Miss Lillycrop, in some anxiety, for she had a very strong personal fear of burglars.

"Oh! I have several little plans for their reception," replied the lady, with a quiet smile. There's a bell in the corner there, which was meant for the parish church, but was thought to be a little too small. I bought it, had a handle affixed to it, as you see, and should ring it at an open window if the house were attempted.

"But they might rush in at the door and stop you—kill you even!" suggested the other, with a shudder.

"Have you not observed," said Miss Stivergill, "that I lock my door on the inside? Besides, I have other little appliances which I shall explain to you in the morning, for I scorn to be dependent on a man-servant for protection. There's a revolver in that drawer beside you"—Miss Lillycrop shrank from the drawer in question—"but I would only use it in the last extremity, for I am not fond of taking human life. Indeed, I would decline to do so even to save my own, but I should have no objection to maim. Injuries about the legs or feet might do burglars spiritual as well as physical good in the long-run, besides being beneficial to society.—Now, my dear, good-night."

Miss Stivergill extinguished the candle as violently as she would have maimed a burglar, and poor Miss Lillycrop's heart leapt as she was suddenly plunged into total darkness—for she was naturally timid, and could not help it.

For some time both ladies lay perfectly still; the hostess enjoying that placid period which precedes slumber; the guest quaking with fear caused by the thoughts that the recent conversation had raised.

Presently Miss Lillycrop raised herself on one elbow, and glared in the direction of her friend's bed so awfully that her eyes all but shone in the dark.

"Did you hear THAT, dear?" she asked, in a low whisper.

"Of course I did," replied Miss Stivergill aloud. "Hush! listen."

They listened and heard "that" again. There could be no doubt about it—a curious scratching sound at the dining-room window immediately below theirs.

"Rats," said Miss Stivergill in a low voice.

"Oh! I do hope so," whispered Miss Lillycrop. She entertained an inexpressible loathing of rats, but compared with burglars they were as bosom friends whom she would have welcomed with a glad shudder.

In a few minutes the scratching ceased and a bolt or spring snapped. The wildest of rats never made a sound like that! Miss Lillycrop sat bolt up in her bed, transfixed with horror, and could dimly see her friend spring from her couch and dart across the room like a ghostly phantom.

"Lilly, if you scream," said Miss Stivergill, in a voice so low and stern that it caused her blood to curdle, "I'll do something awful to you.—Get up!"

The command was peremptory. Miss Lillycrop obeyed.

"Here, catch hold of the bell-handle—so. Your other hand—there—keep the tongue fast in it, and don't ring till I give the word."

Miss Lillycrop was perfect in her docility.

A large tin tea-tray hung at the side of Miss Stivergill's bed. Beside it was a round ball with a handle to it. Miss Lillycrop had wondered what these were there for. She soon found out.

Miss Stivergill put the dressing-table a little to one side, and placed a ewer of water on it.

At that moment the dining-room window was heard to open slowly but distinctly.

Miss Stivergill threw up the bedroom window.

The marrow in Miss Lillycrop's spine froze.

Mr Bones started and looked up in surprise. He received a deluge of water on his face, and at the same moment a ewer burst in atoms on the gravel at his feet—for Miss Stivergill did nothing by halves. But Bones was surprise-proof by that time; besides, the coveted treasure was on the sideboard—almost within his grasp. He was too bold a villain to be frightened by women, and he knew that sleeping country-folk are not quickly roused to succour the inmates of a lonely cottage. Darting into the room, he tumbled over chairs, tables, work-boxes, fire-irons, and coal-scuttle.

"Ring!" said Miss Stivergill sharply. At the same moment she seized the tea-tray in her left hand and belaboured it furiously with the drumstick.

"Ring out at the window!" shouted Miss Stivergill.

Miss Lillycrop did so until her spinal marrow thawed.

The noise was worse than appalling. Little Pax, unable to express his conflicting emotions in any other way, yelled with agonising delight. Even the hardened spirit of Bones trembled with mingled feelings of alarm and surprise. He found and grasped the coveted box, and leaped out of the window with a bound. It is highly probable that he would have got clear off but for the involuntary action of Miss Lillycrop. As that lady's marrow waxed warm she dashed the great bell against the window-sill with such fervour that it flew from her grasp and descended full on the burglar's cranium, just as he leaped into the arms of the policeman, and both fell heavily to the ground. The guardian of the night immediately jumped up uninjured, but Bones lay prone on the green sward—stunned by the bell.

"That's well done, anyhow, an' saved me a world o' trouble," said the constable, looking up at the window as he held the burglar down, though there was little necessity for that. "You couldn't shy me over a bit of rope, could you, ma'am?"

Miss Stivergill, to whom nothing seemed difficult, and who had by that time stopped her share in the noise, went into a cupboard and fetched thence a coil of rope.

"I meant it to be used in the event of fire," she said quietly to her friend, who had thrown herself flat on her bed, "but it will serve other purposes as well.—There, policeman."

She threw it down, and when Bones recovered consciousness he found himself securely tied and seated in a chair in the Rosebud kitchen—the policeman looking at him with interest, and the domestics with alarm. Miss Stivergill regarded him with calm severity.

"Now he's quite safe, ma'am, but I can't venture to take 'im to the station alone. If you'll kindly consent to keep an eye on him, ma'am, till I run down for a comrade, I'll be greatly obleeged. There's no fear of his wrigglin' out o' that, ma'am; you may make your mind easy."

"My mind is quite easy, policeman; you may go. I shall watch him."

When the man had left, Miss Stivergill ordered the servants to leave the kitchen. Little Pax, who had discreetly kept out of range of the burglar's eye, went with them, a good deal depressed in spirit, for his mission had failed. The burglary had not indeed, been accomplished, but—"father" was "took."

When Miss Stivergill was left alone with the burglar she gazed at him for some time in silence.

"Man," she said at length, "you are little Bones's father."

"If you means Tottie, ma'am, I is," replied Bones, with a look and tone which were not amiable.

"I have a strong feeling of regard for your child, though not a scrap of pity for yourself," said Miss Stivergill, with a frown.

Mr Bones muttered something to the effect that he returned the compliment with interest.

"For Tottie's sake I should be sorry to see you transported," continued the lady, "therefore I mean to let you off. Moreover, bad as you are, I believe you are not so bad as many people would think you. Therefore I'm going to trust you."

Bones looked inquiringly and with some suspicion at his captor. He evidently thought there was a touch of insanity about her. This was confirmed when Miss Stivergill, seizing a carving-knife from the dresser, advanced with masculine strides towards him. He made a desperate effort to burst his bonds, but they were too scientifically arranged for that. "Don't fear," said the lady, severing the cord that bound the burglar's wrists, and putting the knife in his hands. "Now," she added, "you know how to cut yourself free, no doubt."

"Well, you are a trump!" exclaimed Bones, rapidly touching his bonds at salient points with the keen edge.

In a few seconds he was free.

"Now, go away," said Miss Stivergill, "and don't let me see you here again."

Bones looked with admiration at his deliverer, but could only find words to repeat that she was a trump, and vanished through the back-door, just as a band of men, with pitchforks, rakes, spades, and lanterns, came clamouring in at the front garden gate from the neighbouring farm.

"What is it?" exclaimed the farmer.

"Only a burglar," answered Miss Stivergill.

"Where is he?" chorussed everybody.

"That's best known to himself," replied the lady, who, in order to give the fugitive time, went into a minute and slow account of the whole affair—excepting, of course, her connivance at the escape—to the great edification of her audience, among whom the one who seemed to derive the chief enjoyment was a black boy. He endeavoured to screen himself behind the labourers, and was obviously unable to restrain his glee.

"But what's come of 'im, ma'am?" asked the farmer impatiently.

"Escaped!" answered Miss Stivergill.

"Escaped!" echoed everybody, looking furtively round, as though they supposed he had only escaped under the dresser or into the keyhole.

"Escaped!" repeated the policeman, who entered at the moment with two comrades; "impossible! I tied 'im so that no efforts of his own could avail 'im. Somebody must 'ave 'elped 'im."

"The carving-knife helped him," said Miss Stivergill, with a look of dignity.—"Perhaps, instead of speculating how he escaped, policeman, it would be better to pursue him. He can't be very far off, as it is not twenty minutes since he cut himself free."

In a state of utter bewilderment the policeman rushed out of the cottage, followed by his comrades and the agriculturists. Peter Pax essayed to go with them, but was restrained by an iron grip on his collar. Pulling him back, Miss Stivergill dragged her captive into a parlour and shut the door.

"Come now, little Pax," she said, setting the boy in a chair in front of her, "you needn't try to deceive me. I'd know you among a thousand in any disguise. If you were to blacken your face with coal-tar an inch thick your impertinence would shine through. You know that the burglar is little Bones's father; you've a pretty good guess that I let him off. You have come here for some purpose in connection with him. Come—out with it, and make a clean breast."

Little Pax did make a clean breast then and there, was washed white, supped and slept at The Rosebud, returned to town next day by the first train, and had soon the pleasure of informing Tottie that the intended burglary had been frustrated, and that her father wasn't "took" after all.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

SHOWS HOW ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER, AND SO ON.

It is a mere truism to state that many a chain of grave and far-reaching events is set in motion by some insignificant trifle. The touching of a trigger by a child explodes a gun which extinguishes a valuable life, and perhaps throws a whole neighbourhood into difficulties. The lighting of a match may cause a conflagration which shall "bring down" an extensive firm, some of whose dependants, in the retail trade, will go down along with it, and cause widespreading distress, if not ruin, among a whole army of greengrocers, buttermen, and other small fry.

The howling of a bad baby was the comparatively insignificant event which set going a certain number of wheels, whose teeth worked into the cogs which revolved in connection with our tale.

The howling referred to awoke a certain contractor near Pimlico with a start, and caused him to rise off what is popularly known as the "wrong side." Being an angry man, the contractor called the baby bad names, and would have whipped it had it been his own. Going to his office before breakfast with the effects of the howl strong upon him, he met a humble labourer there with a surly "Well, what do you want?"

The labourer wanted work. The contractor had no work to give him. The labourer pleaded that his wife and children were starving. The contractor didn't care a pinch of snuff for his wife or children, and bade him be off. The labourer urged that the times were very hard, and he would be thankful for any sort of job, no matter how small. He endeavoured to work on the contractor's feelings by referring to the premature death, by starvation, of his pet parrot, which had been for years in the family, and a marvellous speaker, having been taught by his mate Bill. The said Bill was also out of work, and waiting for him outside. He too would be thankful for a job—anything would do, and they would be willing to work for next to nothing. The contractor still professed utter indifference to the labourer's woes, but the incident of the parrot had evidently touched a cord which could not be affected by human suffering. After a few minutes' consideration he said there was a small job—a pump at the corner of a certain street not far off had to be taken down, to make way for contemplated alterations. It was not necessary to take it down just then, but as the labourers were so hard up for a job they were at liberty to undertake that one.

Thus two wheels were set in motion, and the result was that the old pump at the corner of Purr Street was uprooted and laid low by these labourers, one of whom looked into the lower end of the pump and said "Hallo!"

His companion Bill echoed the "Hallo!" and added "What's up?"

"W'y, if there ain't somethink queer inside of the old pump," said the labourer, going down on both knees in order to look more earnestly into it. "I do b'lieve it's letters. Some double-extra stoopids 'ave bin an' posted 'em in the pump."

He pulled out handfuls of letters as he spoke, some of which, from their appearance, must have lain there for years, while others were quite fresh!

A passing letter-carrier took charge of these letters, and conveyed them to the Post-Office, where the machinery of the department was set in motion on them. They were examined, faced, sorted, and distributed. Among them was the letter which George Aspel had committed to the care of Tottie Bones at the time of his first arrival in London, and thus it came to pass that the energies of Sir James Clubley, Baronet, were roused into action.

"Dear me! how strange!" said Sir James to himself, on reading the letter. "This unaccountable silence is explained at last. Poor fellow, I have judged him hastily. Come! I'll go find him out."

But this resolve was more easily made than carried into effect. At the hotel from which the letter had been dated nothing was known of the missing youth except that he had departed long long ago, leaving as his future address the name of a bird-stuffer, which name had unfortunately been mislaid—not lost. Oh no—only mislaid! On further inquiry, however, there was a certain undersized, plain-looking, and rather despised chamber-maid who retained a lively and grateful recollection of Mr Aspel, in consequence of his having given her an unexpectedly large tip at parting, coupled with a few slight but kindly made inquiries as to her welfare, which seemed to imply that he regarded her as a human being. She remembered distinctly his telling her one evening that if any one should call for him in his absence he was to be found at the residence of a lady in Cat Street, Pimlico, but for the life of her she couldn't remember the number, though she thought it must have been number nine, for she remembered having connected it in her mind with the well-known lives of a cat.

"Cat Street! Strange name—very!" said Sir James. "Are you sure it was Cat Street?"

"Well, I ain't quite sure, sir," replied the little plain one, with an inquiring frown at the chandelier, "but I know it 'ad somethink to do with cats. P'r'aps it was Mew Street; but I'm quite sure it was Pimlico."

"And the lady's name?"

"Well, sir, I ain't sure of that neither. It was somethink queer, I know, but then there's a-many queer names in London—ain't, there, sir?"

Sir James admitted that there were, and advised her to reflect on a few of them.

The little plain one did reflect—with the aid of the chandelier—and came to the sudden conviction that the lady's name had to do with flowers. "Not roses—no, nor yet violets," she said, with an air of intense mental application, for the maiden's memory was largely dependent on association of ideas; "it might 'ave been marigolds, though it don't seem likely. Stay, was it water—?—Oh! it was lilies! Yes, I 'ave it now: Miss Lilies-somethink."

"Think again, now," said the Baronet, "everything depends on the 'something,' for Miss Lilies is not so extravagantly queer as you seem to think her name was."

"That's true, sir," said the perplexed maid, with a last appealing gaze at the chandelier, and beginning with the first letter of the alphabet— Miss Lilies A— Lilies B— Lilies C—, etcetera, until she came to K. "That's it now. I 'ave it almost. It 'ad to do with lots of lilies, I'm quite sure—quantities, it must 'ave been."

On Sir James suggesting that quantities did not begin with a K the little plain one's feelings were slightly hurt, and she declined to go any further into the question. Sir James was therefore obliged to rest content with what he had learned, and continued his search in Pimlico. There he spent several hours in playing, with small shopkeepers and policemen, a game somewhat analogous to that which is usually commenced with the words "Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?" The result was that eventually he reached Number 9 Purr Street, and found himself in the presence of Miss Lillycrop.

That lady, however, damped his rising hopes by saying that she did not know where George Aspel was to be found, and that he had suddenly disappeared—to her intense regret—from the bird-warehouse in which he had held a situation. It belonged to the brothers Blurt, whose address she gave to her visitor.

Little Tottie Bones, who had heard the conversation through the open parlour door, could have told where Aspel was to be found, but the promise made to her father sealed her lips; besides, particular inquiries after any one were so suggestive to her of policemen, and being "took," that she had a double motive to silence.

Mr Enoch Blurt could throw no light on the subject, but he could, and did, add to Sir James's increasing knowledge of the youth's reported dissipation, and sympathised with him strongly in his desire to find out Aspel's whereabouts. Moreover, he directed him to the General Post-Office, where a youth named Maylands, a letter-sorter—who had formerly been a telegraph message-boy,—and an intimate friend of Aspel, was to be found, and might be able to give some information about him, though he (Mr Blurt) feared not.

Phil Maylands could only say that he had never ceased to make inquiries after his friend, but hitherto without success, and that he meant to continue his inquiries until he should find him.

Sir James Clubley therefore returned in a state of dejection to the sympathetic Miss Lillycrop, who gave him a note of introduction to a detective—the grave man in grey,—a particular friend and ally of her own, with whom she had scraped acquaintance during one of her many pilgrimages of love and mercy among the poor.

To the man in grey Sir James committed his case, and left him to work it out.

Now, the way of a detective is a mysterious way. Far be it from us to presume to point it out, or elucidate or expound it in any degree. We can only give a vague, incomplete, it may be even incorrect, view of what the man in grey did and achieved, nevertheless we are bound to record what we know as to this officer's proceedings, inasmuch as they have to do with the thread of our narrative.

It may be that other motives, besides those connected with George Aspel, induced the man in grey to visit the General Post-Office, but we do not certainly know. It is quite possible that a whole host of subsidiary and incidental cases on hand might have induced him to take up the Post-Office like a huge stone, wherewith to knock down innumerable birds at one and the same throw; we cannot tell. The brain of a detective must be essentially different from the brains of ordinary men. His powers of perception—we might add, of conception, reception, deception, and particularly of interception—are marvellous. They are altogether too high for us. How then can we be expected to explain why it was that, on arriving at the Post-Office, the man in grey, instead of asking eagerly for George Aspel at the Inquiry Office, or the Returned Letter Office, or the poste restante, as any sane man would have done, began to put careless and apparently unmeaning questions about little dogs, and to manifest a desire to be shown the chief points of interest in the basement of St. Martin's-le-Grand?

In the gratifying of his desires the man in grey experienced no difficulty. The staff of the Post-Office is unvaryingly polite and obliging to the public. An order was procured, and he soon found himself with a guide traversing the mysterious regions underneath the splendid new building where the great work of postal telegraphy is carried on.

While his conductor led him through the labyrinthine passages in which a stranger would infallibly have lost his way, he explained the various objects of interest—especially pointing out the racks where thousands on thousands of old telegrams are kept, for a short time, for reference in case of dispute, and then destroyed. He found the man in grey so intelligent and sympathetic that he quite took a fancy to him.

"Do you happen to remember," asked the detective, in a quiet way, during a pause in his companion's remarks, "anything about a mad dog taking refuge in this basement some time ago—a small poodle I think it was— which disappeared in some mysterious way?"

The conductor had heard a rumour of such an event, but had been ill and off duty at the time, and could give him no details.

"This," said he, opening a door, "is the Battery Room, where the electricity is generated for the instruments above.—Allow me to introduce you to the Battery Inspector."

The man in grey bowed to the Inspector, who was a tall, powerful man, quite fit, apparently, to take charge of a battery of horse artillery if need were.

"A singular place," remarked the detective, looking sharply round the large room, whose dimensions were partially concealed, however, by the rows of shelving which completely filled it from floor to ceiling.

"Somewhat curious," assented the Inspector; "you see our batteries require a good deal of shelving. All put together, there is in this room about three miles of shelving, completely filled, as you see, with about 22,000 cells or jars. The electricity is generated in these jars. They contain carbon and zinc plates in a solution of bichromate of potash and sulphuric acid and water. We fill them up once every two weeks, and renew the plates occasionally. There is a deal of sulphate of copper used up here, sir, in creating electricity—about six tons in the year. Pure copper accumulates on the plates in the operation, but the zinc wears away."

The detective expressed real astonishment and interest in all this, and much more that the Inspector told him.

"Poisonous stuff in your jars, I should fancy?" he inquired.

"Rather," replied the Inspector.

"Does your door ever stand open?" asked the detective.

"Sometimes," said the other, with a look of slight surprise.

"You never received a visit down here from a mad dog, did you?" asked the man in grey.

"Never!"

"I only ask the question," continued the other, in a careless tone, "because I once read in the newspapers of a poodle being chased into the Post-Office and never heard of again. It occurred to me that poison might account for it.—A curious-looking thing here; what is it?"

He had come to a part of the Battery Room where there was a large frame or case of dark wood, the surface of which was covered with innumerable brass knobs or buttons, which were coupled together by wires.

"That is our Battery Test-Box," explained the Inspector. "There are four thousand wires connected with it—two thousand going to the instruments up-stairs, and two thousand connected with the battery-jars. When I complete the circuit by connecting any couple of these buttons, the influence of the current is at once perceived."

He took a piece of charcoal, as he spoke, and brought it into contact with two of the knobs. The result was to convert the coal instantly into an intense electric light of dazzling beauty. The point of an ordinary lead pencil applied in the same way became equally brilliant.

"That must be a powerful battery," remarked the detective.

The Inspector smilingly took two handles from a neighbouring shelf and held them out to his visitor.

"Lay hold of these," he said, "and you will feel its powers."

The detective did as directed, and received a shock which caused him to fling down the handles with great promptitude and violence. He was too self-possessed a man, however, to seem put out.

"Strong!" he said, with a short laugh; "remarkably strong and effective."

"Yes," assented the Inspector, "it is pretty powerful, and it requires to be so, for it does heavy work and travels a considerable distance. The greater the distance, you know, the greater the power required to do the work and transmit the messages. This is the battery that fires two signal-guns every day at one o'clock—one at Newcastle, the other at South Shields, and supplies Greenwich time to all our principal stations over a radius of three hundred miles.—I sent the contents of one hundred and twenty jars through you just now!"

"That's curious and interesting; I may even say it is suggestive," returned the detective, in a meditative tone. "Double that number of jars, now, applied to the locks of street doors at night and the fastenings of windows would give a powerful surprise to burglars."

"Ah, no doubt, and also to belated friends," said the Inspector, "not to mention the effect on servant-maids in the morning when people forgot to disconnect the wires."

The man in grey admitted the truth of the observation, and, thanking the Battery Inspector for his kind attentions, bade him a cordial adieu. Continuing his investigation of the basement, he came to the three huge fifty-horse-power engines, whose duty it is to suck the air from the pneumatic telegraph tubes in the great hall above. Here the detective became quite an engineer, asked with much interest and intelligence about governors, pistons, escape-valves, actions, etcetera, and wound up with a proposition.

"Suppose, now," he said, "that a little dog were to come suddenly into this room and dash about in a miscellaneous sort of way, could it by any means manage to become entangled in your machinery and get so demolished as never more to be seen or heard of?"

The engineer looked at his questioner with a somewhat amused expression. "No, sir, I don't think it could. No doubt it might kill itself with much facility in various ways, for fifty horsepower, properly applied, would do for an elephant, much more a dog. But I don't believe that power to be sufficient to produce annihilation. There would have been remains of some sort."

From the engine-room our detective proceeded to the boiler-room and the various kitchens, and thence to the basement of the old building on the opposite side of the street, where he found a similarly perplexing labyrinth. He was taken in hand here by Mr Bright, who chanced to be on duty, and led him first to the Stamp Department. There was much to draw him off his "canine" mania here. First he was introduced to the chief of the department, who gave him much interesting information about stamps in general.

Then he was conducted to another room, and shown the tables at which men were busy counting sheets of postage-stamps and putting them up in envelopes for all parts of the United Kingdom. The officer in charge told him that the weight of stamps sent out from that room averaged a little over three tons daily, and that the average value of the weekly issue was 150,000 pounds. Then he was led into a fireproof safe—a solid stone apartment—which was piled from floor to ceiling with sheets of postage-stamps of different values. Those for letters ranged from one halfpenny to one pound, but those used for telegrams ran up to as much as five pounds sterling for a single stamp. Taking down from a shelf a packet of these high-priced stamps, which was about the size of a thick octavo book, the official stated that it was worth 35,000 pounds.

"Yes, sir," he added, "this strong box of ours holds a deal of money. You are at this moment in the presence of nearly two millions sterling!"

"A tidy little sum to retire upon. Would build two thousand Board Schools at a thousand pounds each," said the detective, who was an adept at figures,—as at everything else.

Feeling that it would be ridiculous to inquire about mad dogs in the presence of two millions sterling, the man in grey suffered himself to be led through long passages and vaulted chambers, some of which latter were kitchens, where the men on duty had splendid fires, oceans of hot water, benches and tables, and liberty to cook the food either brought by themselves for the day or procured from a caterer on the premises— for Post-Office officials when on duty may not leave the premises for any purpose whatever, except duty, and must sign books specifying to the minute when, where, and why, they come and go. In this basement also, as in the other, were long rows of numbered cupboards or large pigeon-holes with lockable doors, one of which was appropriated to each man for the safe depositing of his victuals and other private property.

Here, too, were whitewashed lavatories conveniently and plentifully distributed, with every appliance for cleanliness and comfort, including a large supply of fresh and good water. Of this, 49,000 gallons a day is supplied by an artesian well, and 39,000 gallons a day by the New River Company, in the new building. In the old building the 27,000 gallons consumed daily is supplied by the New River Company. It is, however, due to the 5900 human beings who labour in both buildings to state that at least 55,000 of these gallons are swallowed by steam-engines on the premises.

To all these things Mr Bright directed attention with professional zeal, and the man in grey observed with much interest all that he saw and heard, until he came to the letter-carriers' kitchen, where several of the men were cooking food at the fire, while others were eating or chatting at the tables.

Happening to mention the dog here, he found that Mr Bright was partially acquainted with the incident.

"It was down these stairs it ran," he said, "and was knocked on the head in this very room by the policeman. No one knows where he took the body to, but he went out at that door, in the direction, it is supposed, of the boiler-house."

The detective had at last got hold of a clew. He was what is styled, in a well-known game, "getting warm."

"Let us visit the boiler-house," he said.

Again, for the nonce, he became an engineer. Like Paul, he was all things to all men. He was very affable to the genial stoker, who was quite communicative about the boilers. After a time the detective referred to the dog, and the peculiar glance of the stoker at once showed him that his object was gained.

"A policeman brought it?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, a policeman brought it," said the stoker suspiciously.

The man in grey soon, however, removed his suspicions and induced him to become confidential. When he had obtained all the information that the stoker could give—in addition to poor Floppart's collar, which had no name on it, but was stamped with three stars on its inside—the detective ceased to make any further inquiries after mad dogs, and, with a disengaged mind, accompanied Mr Bright through the remainder of the basement, where he commented on the wise arrangement of having the mail-bags made by convicts, and on the free library, which he pronounced a magnificent institution, and which contained about 2000 volumes, that were said by the courteous librarian to be largely used by the officials, as well as the various newspapers and magazines, furnished gratuitously by their proprietors. He was also shown the "lifts," which raised people—to say nothing of mails, etcetera—from the bottom to the top of the building, or vice versa; the small steam-engine which worked the same, and the engineer of which—an old servant—was particularly impressive on the peculiar "governor" by which his engine was regulated; the array of letter stampers, which were kept by their special guardian in immaculate order and readiness; the fire-hose, which was also ready for instant service, and the firemen, who were in constant attendance with a telegraphic instrument at their special disposal, connecting them with other parts of the building. All this, and a great deal more which we have not space to mention, the man in grey saw, admired, and commented on, as well as on the general evidence of order, method, regularity, neatness, and system which pervaded the whole place.

"You manage things well here," he said to his conductor at parting.

"We do," responded Mr Bright, with an approving nod; "and we had need to, for the daily despatch of Her Majesty's mails to all parts of the world is no child's play. Our motto is—or ought to be—'Security, Celerity, Punctuality, and Regularity.' We couldn't carry that out, sir, without good management.—Good-bye."

"Good-bye, and thank you," said the detective, leaving St. Martin's-le-Grand with his busy brain ruminating on a variety of subjects in a manner that no one but a detective could by any possibility understand.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE TURNING-POINT.

As time advanced Philip Maylands' circumstances improved, for Phil belonged to that class of which it is sometimes said "they are sure to get on." He was thorough-going and trustworthy—two qualities these which the world cannot do without, and which, being always in demand, are never found begging.

Phil did not "set up" for anything. He assumed no airs of superior sanctity. He did not even aim at being better than others, though he did aim, daily, at being better than he was. In short, the lad, having been trained in ways of righteousness, and having the Word of God as his guide, advanced steadily and naturally along the narrow way that leads to life. Hence it came to pass in the course of time that he passed from the ranks of Out-door Boy Telegraph Messenger to that of Boy-Sorter, with a wage of twelve shillings a week, which was raised to eighteen shillings. His hours of attendance at the Circulation Department were from 4:30 in the morning till 9; and from 4:30 in the evening till 8. These suited him well, for he had ever been fond of rising with the lark while at home, and had no objection to rise before the lark in London. The evening being free he devoted to study—for Phil was one of that by no means small class of youths who, in default of a College education, do their best to train themselves, by the aid of books and the occasional help of clergymen, philanthropists, and evening classes.

In all this Phil was greatly assisted by his sister May, who, although not much more highly educated than himself, was quick of perception, of an inquiring mind, and a sympathetic soul. He was also somewhat assisted, and, at times, not a little retarded, by his ardent admirer Peter Pax, who joined him enthusiastically in his studies, but, being of a discursive and enterprising spirit, was prone to tempt him off the beaten paths of learning into the thickets of speculative philosophy.

One evening Pax was poring over a problem in Euclid with his friend in Pegaway Hall.

"Phil," he said uneasily, "drop your triangles a bit and listen. Would you think it dishonest to keep a thing secret that ought to be known?"

"That depends a good deal on what the secret is, and what I have got to do with it," replied Phil. "But why do you ask?"

"Because I've been keeping a secret a long time—much against my will— an' I can stand it no longer. If I don't let it out, it'll bu'st me— besides, I've got leave to tell it."

"Out with it, then, Pax; for it's of no use trying to keep down things that don't agree with you."

"Well, then," said Pax. "I know where George Aspel is!"

Phil, who had somewhat unwillingly withdrawn his mind from Euclid, turned instantly with an eager look towards his little friend.

"Ah, I thought that would rouse you," said the latter, with a look of unwonted earnestness on his face. "You must know, Phil, that a long while ago—just about the time of the burglary at Miss Stivergill's cottage—I made the amazin' discovery that little Tottie Bones is Mariar—alias Merry,—the little baby-cousin I was nuss to in the country long ago, whom I've often spoke to you about, and from whom I was torn when she had reached the tender age of two or thereby. It follows, of course, that Tottie's father—old Bones—is my uncle, alias Blackadder, alias the Brute, of whom I have also made mention, and who, it seems, came to London to try his fortune in knavery after havin' failed in the country. I saw him once, I believe, at old Blurt's bird-shop, but did not recognise 'im at the time, owin' to his hat bein' pulled well over his eyes, though I rather think he must have recognised me. The second time I saw him was when Tottie came to me for help and set me on his tracks, when he was goin' to commit the burglary on Rosebud Cottage. I've told you all about that, but did not tell you that the burglar was Tottie's father, as Tottie had made me promise not to mention it to any one. I knew the rascal at once on seeing him in the railway carriage, and could hardly help explodin' in his face at the fun of the affair. Of course he didn't know me on account of my bein' as black in the face as the King of Dahomey.—Well," continued Pax, warming with his subject, "it also follows, as a matter of course, that Mrs Bones is my blessed old aunt Georgie—now changed into Molly, on account, no doubt, of the Brute's desire to avoid the attentions of the police. Now, as I've a great regard for aunt Georgie, and have lost a good deal of my hatred of the Brute, and find myself fonder than ever of Tottie—I beg her pardon, of Merry—I've been rather intimate—indeed, I may say, pretty thick—with the Boneses ever since; and as I am no longer a burden to the Brute—can even help 'im a little—he don't abominate me as much as he used to. They're wery poor—awful poor—are the Boneses. The Brute still keeps up a fiction of a market-garden and a dairy—the latter bein' supplied by a cow and a pump—but it don't pay, and the business in the city, whatever it may be, seems equally unprofitable, for their town house is not a desirable residence."

"This is all very interesting and strange, Pax, but what has it to do with George Aspel?" asked Phil. "You know I'm very anxious about him, and have long been hunting after him. Indeed, I wonder that you did not tell me about him before."

"How could I," said Pax, "when Tot—I mean Merry—no, I'll stick to Tottie it comes more natural than the old name—told me not for worlds to mention it. Only now, after pressin' her and aunt Georgie wery hard, have I bin allowed to let it out, for poor Aspel himself don't want his whereabouts to be known."

"Surely!" exclaimed Phil, with a troubled, anxious air, "he has not become a criminal."

"No. Auntie assures me he has not, but he is sunk very low, drinks hard to drown his sorrow, and is ashamed to be seen. No wonder. You'd scarce know 'im, Phil, workin' like a coal-heaver, in a suit of dirty fustian, about the wharves—tryin' to keep out of sight. I've come across 'im once or twice, but pretended not to recognise 'im. Now, Phil," added little Pax, with deep earnestness in his face, as he laid his hand impressively on his friend's arm, "we must save these two men somehow—you and I."

"Yes, God helping us, we must," said Phil.

From that moment Philip Maylands and Peter Pax passed, as it were, into a more earnest sphere of life, a higher stage of manhood. The influence of a powerful motive, a settled purpose, and a great end, told on their characters to such an extent that they both seemed to have passed over the period of hobbledehoyhood at a bound, and become young men.

With the ardour of youth, they set out on their mission at once. That very night they went together to the wretched abode of Abel Bones, having previously, however, opened their hearts and minds to May Maylands, from whom, as they had expected, they received warm encouragement.

Little did these unsophisticated youths know what a torrent of anxiety, grief, fear, and hope their communication sent through the heart of poor May. The eager interest she manifested in their plans they regarded as the natural outcome of a kind heart towards an old friend and playfellow. So it was, but it was more than that!

The same evening George Aspel and Abel Bones were seated alone in their dismal abode in Archangel Court. There were tumblers and a pot of beer before them, but no food. Aspel sat with his elbows on the table, grasping the hair on his temples with both hands. The other sat with arms crossed, and his chin sunk on his chest, gazing gloomily but intently at his companion.

Remorse—that most awful of the ministers of vengeance—had begun to torment Abel Bones. When he saved Tottie from the fire, Aspel had himself unwittingly unlocked the door in the burglar's soul which let the vengeful minister in. Thereafter Miss Stivergill's illustration of mercy, for the sake of another, had set the unlocked door ajar, and the discovery that his ill-treated little nephew had nearly lost his life in the same cause, had pulled the door well back on its rusty hinges.

Having thus obtained free entrance, Remorse sat down and did its work with terrible power. Bones was a man of tremendous passions and powerful will. His soul revolted violently from the mean part he had been playing. Although he had not succeeded in drawing Aspel into the vortex of crime as regards human law, he had dragged him very low, and, especially, had fanned the flame of thirst for strong drink, which was the youth's chief—at least his most dangerous—enemy. His thirst was an inheritance from his forefathers, but the sin of giving way to it—of encouraging it at first when it had no power, and then of gratifying it as it gained strength, until it became a tyrant—was all his own. Aspel knew this, and the thought filled him with despair as he sat there with his now scarred and roughened fingers almost tearing out his hair, while his bloodshot eyes stared stonily at the blank wall opposite.

Bones continued to gaze at his companion, and to wish with all his heart that he had never met him. He had, some time before that, made up his mind to put no more temptation in the youth's way. He now went a step further—he resolved to attempt the task of getting him out of the scrapes into which he had dragged him. But he soon found that the will which had always been so powerful in the carrying out of evil was woefully weak in the unfamiliar effort to do good!

Still, Bones had made up his mind to try. With this end in view he proposed a walk in the street, the night being fine. Aspel sullenly consented. The better to talk the matter over, Bones proposed to retire to a quiet though not savoury nook by the river-side. Aspel objected, and proposed a public-house instead, as being more cheerful.

Just opposite that public-house there stood one of those grand institutions which are still in their infancy, but which, we are persuaded, will yet take a prominent part in the rescue of thousands of mankind from the curse of strong drink. It was a "public-house without drink"—a coffee-tavern, where working men could find a cheap and wholesome meal, a cheerful, warm, and well-lit room wherein to chat and smoke, and the daily papers, without being obliged to swallow fire-water for the good of the house.

Bones looked at the coffee-house, and thought of suggesting it to his companion. He even willed to do so, but, alas! his will in this matter was as weak as the water which he mingled so sparingly with his grog. Shame, which never troubled him much when about to take a vicious course, suddenly became a giant, and the strong man became weak like a little child. He followed Aspel into the public-house, and the result of this first effort at reformation was that both men returned home drunk.

It seemed a bad beginning, but it was a beginning, and as such was not to be despised.

When Phil and Pax reached Archangel Court, a-glow with hope and good resolves, they found the subjects of their desires helplessly asleep in a corner of the miserable room, with Mrs Bones preparing some warm and wholesome food against the period of their recovery.

It was a crushing blow to their new-born hopes. Poor little Pax had entertained sanguine expectations of the effect of an appeal from Phil, and lost heart completely. Phil was too much cast down by the sight of his friend to be able to say much, but he had a more robust spirit than his little friend, and besides, had strong faith in the power and willingness of God to use even weak and sinful instruments for the accomplishment of His purposes of mercy.

Afterwards, in talking over the subject with his friend Sterling, the city missionary, he spoke hopefully about Aspel, but said that he did not expect any good could be done until they got him out of his miserable position, and away from the society of Bones.

To his great surprise the missionary did not agree with him in this.

"Of course," he said, "it is desirable that Mr Aspel should be restored to his right position in society, and be removed from the bad influence of Bones, and we must use all legitimate means for those ends; but we must not fall into the mistake of supposing that 'no good can be done' by the Almighty to His sinful creatures even in the worst of circumstances. No relatives or friends solicited the Prodigal Son to leave the swine-troughs, or dragged him away. It was God who put it into his heart to say 'I will arise and go to my father.' It was God who gave him 'power to will and to do.'"

"Would you then advise that we should do nothing for him, and leave him entirely in the hands of God?" asked Phil, with an uncomfortable feeling of surprise.

"By no means," replied the missionary. "I only combat your idea that no good can be done to him if he is left in his present circumstances. But we are bound to use every influence we can bring to bear in his behalf, and we must pray that success may be granted to our efforts to bring him to the Saviour. Means must be used as if means could accomplish all, but means must not be depended on, for 'it is God who giveth us the victory.' The most appropriate and powerful means applied in the wisest manner to your friend would be utterly ineffective unless the Holy Spirit gave him a receptive heart. This is one of the most difficult lessons that you and I and all men have to learn, Phil—that God must be all in all, and man nothing whatever but a willing instrument. Even that mysterious willingness is not of ourselves, for 'it is God who maketh us both to will and to do of His good pleasure.' 'Without me,' says Jesus, 'ye can do nothing.' A rejecter of Jesus, therefore, is helpless for good, yet responsible."

"That is hard to understand," said Phil, with a perplexed look.

"The reverse of it is harder to understand, as you will find if you choose to take the trouble to think it out," replied the missionary.

Phil Maylands did take the trouble to think it out. One prominent trait in his character was an intense reverence for truth—any truth, every truth—a strong tendency to distinguish between truth and error in all things that chanced to come under his observation, but especially in those things which his mother had taught him, from earliest infancy, to regard as the most important of all.

Many a passer-by did Phil jostle on his way to the Post-Office that day, after his visit to the missionary, for it was the first time that his mind had been turned, earnestly at least, to the subject of God's sovereignty and man's responsibility.

"Too deep by far for boys," we hear some reader mutter. And yet that same reader, perchance, teaches her little ones to consider the great fact that God is One in Three!

No truth is too deep for boys and girls to consider, if they only approach it in a teachable, reverent spirit, and are brought to it by their teacher in a prayerful spirit. But fear not, reader. We do not mean to inflict on you a dissertation on the mysterious subject referred to. We merely state the fact that Phil Maylands met it at this period of his career, and, instead of shelving it—as perhaps too many do—as a too difficult subject, which might lie over to a more convenient season, tackled it with all the energy of his nature. He went first to his closet and his knees, and then to his Bible.

"To the law and to the testimony" used to be Mrs Maylands' watchword in all her battles with Doubt. "To whom shall we go," she was wont to say, "if we go not to the Word of God?"

Phil therefore searched the Scripture. Not being a Greek scholar, he sought help of those who were learned—both personally and through books. Thus he got at correct renderings, and by means of dictionaries ascertained the exact meanings of words. By study he got at what some have styled the general spirit of Scripture, and by reading both sides of controverted points he ascertained the thoughts of various minds. In this way he at length became "fully persuaded in his own mind" that God's sovereignty and man's responsibility are facts taught in Scripture, and affirmed by human experience, and that they form a great unsolvable mystery—unsolvable at least by man in his present condition of existence.

This not only relieved his mind greatly, by convincing him that, the subject being bottomless, it was useless to try to get to the bottom of it, and wise to accept it "as a little child," but it led him also to consider that in the Bible there are two kinds of mysteries, or deep things—the one kind being solvable, the other unsolvable. He set himself, therefore, diligently to discover and separate the one kind from the other, with keen interest.

But this is by the way. Phil's greatest anxiety and care at that time was the salvation of his old friend and former idol, George Aspel.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

PLANS AND COUNTER PLANS.

One evening Phil sat in the sorting-room of the General Post-Office with his hand to his head—for the eight o'clock mail was starting; his head, eyes, and hands had been unusually active during the past two hours, and when the last bundle of letters dropped from his fingers into the mail-bags, head, eyes, and hands were aching.

A row of scarlet vans was standing under a platform, into which mail-bags, apparently innumerable, were being shot. As each of these vans received its quota it rattled off to its particular railway station, at the rate which used, in the olden time, to be deemed the extreme limit of "haste, haste, post haste." The yard began to empty when eight o'clock struck. A few seconds later the last of the scarlet vans drove off; and about forty tons of letters, etcetera, were flying from the great centre to the circumference of the kingdom.

Phil still sat pressing the aching fingers to the aching head and eyes, when he was roused by a touch on the shoulder. It was Peter Pax, who had also, by that time, worked his way upwards in the service.

"Tired, Phil?" asked Pax.

"A little, but it soon passes off," said Phil lightly, as he rose. "There's no breathing-time, you see, towards the close, and it's the pace that kills in everything."

"Are you going to Pegaway Hall to-night?" asked Pax, "because, if so, I'll go with you, bein', so to speak, in a stoodious humour myself."

"No, I'm not going to study to-night,—don't feel up to it. Besides, I want to visit Mr Blurt. The book he lent me on Astronomy ought to be returned, and I want to borrow another.—Come, you'll go with me."

After exchanging some books at the library in the basement, which the man in grey had styled a "magnificent institootion," the two friends left the Post-Office together.

"Old Mr Blurt is fond of you, Pax."

"That shows him to be a man of good taste," said Pax, "and his lending you and me as many books as we want proves him a man of good sense. Do you know, Phil, it has sometimes struck me that, what between our Post-Office library and the liberality of Mr Blurt and a few other friends, you and I are rather lucky dogs in the way of literature."

"We are," assented Phil.

"And ought, somehow, to rise to somethin', some time or other," said Pax.

"We ought—and will," replied the other, with a laugh.

"But do you know," continued Pax, with a sigh, "I've at last given up all intention of aiming at the Postmaster-Generalship."

"Indeed, Pax!"

"Yes. It wouldn't suit me at all. You see I was born and bred in the country, and can't stand a city life. No; my soul—small though it be— is too large for London. The metropolis can't hold me, Phil. If I were condemned to live in London all my life, my spirit would infallibly bu'st its shell an' blow the bricks and mortar around me to atoms."

"That's strange now; it seems to me, Pax, that London is country and town in one. Just look at the Parks."

"Pooh! flat as a pancake. No ups and downs, no streams, no thickets, no wild-flowers worth mentioning—nothin' wild whatever 'cept the child'n," returned Pax, contemptuously.

"But look at the Serpentine, and the Thames, and—"

"Bah!" interrupted Pax, "would you compare the Thames with the clear, flowing, limpid—"

"Come now, Pax, don't become poetical, it isn't your forte; but listen while I talk of matters more important. You've sometimes heard me mention my mother, haven't you?"

"I have—with feelings of poetical reverence," answered Pax.

"Well, my mother has been writing of late in rather low spirits about her lonely condition in that wild place on the west coast of Ireland. Now, Mr Blurt has been groaning much lately as to his having no female relative to whom he could trust his brother Fred. You know he is obliged to look after the shop, and to go out a good deal on business, during which times Mr Fred is either left alone, or under the care of Mrs Murridge, who, though faithful, is old and deaf and stupid. Miss Lillycrop would have been available once, but ever since the fire she has been appropriated—along with Tottie Bones—by that female Trojan Miss Stivergill, and dare not hint at leaving her. It's a good thing for her, no doubt, but it's unfortunate for Mr Fred. Now, do you see anything in the mists of that statement?"

"Ah—yes—just so," said Pax; "Mr Blurt wants help; mother wants cheerful society. A sick-room ain't the perfection of gaiety, no doubt, but it's better than the west coast of Ireland—at least as depicted by you. Yes, somethin' might come o' that."

"More may come of it than you think, Pax. You see I want to provide some sort of home for George Aspel to come to when we save him—for we're sure to save him at last. I feel certain of that," said Phil, with something in his tone that did not quite correspond to his words—"quite certain of that," he repeated, "God helping us. I mean to talk it over with May."

They turned, as he spoke, into the passage which led to Mr Flint's abode.

May was at home, and she talked the matter over with Phil in the boudoir with the small window, and the near prospect of brick wall, and the photographs of the Maylands, and the embroidered text that was its occupant's sheet-anchor.

She at once fell in with his idea about getting their mother over to London, but when he mentioned his views about her furnishing a house so as to offer a home to his friend Aspel, she was apparently distressed, and yet seemed unable to explain her meaning, or to state her objections clearly.

"Oh! Phil, dear," she said at last, "don't plan and arrange too much. Let us try to walk so that we may be led by God, and not run in advance of him."

Phil was perplexed and disappointed, for May not only appeared to throw cold water on his efforts, but seemed unwilling to give her personal aid in the rescue of her old playmate. He was wrong in this. In the circumstances, poor May could not with propriety bring personal influence to bear on Aspel, but she could and did pray for him with all the ardour of a young and believing heart.

"It's a very strange thing," continued Phil, "that George won't take assistance from any one. I know that he is in want—that he has not money enough to buy respectable clothes so as to be able to appear among his old friends, yet he will not take a sixpence from me—not even as a loan."

May did not answer. With her face hid in her hands she sat on the edge of her bed, weeping at the thought of her lover's fallen condition. Poor May! People said that telegraphic work was too hard for her, because her cheeks were losing the fresh bloom that she had brought from the west of Ireland, and the fingers with which she manipulated the keys so deftly were growing very thin. But sorrow had more to do with the change than the telegraph had.

"It must be pride," said her brother.

"Oh! Phil," she said, looking up, "don't you think that shame has more to do with it than pride?"

Phil stooped and kissed her.

"Sure it's that, no doubt, and I'm a beast entirely for suggesting pride."

"Supper! Hallo in there," shouted Mr Flint, thundering at the door; "don't keep the old 'ooman waiting!"

Phil and May came forth at once, but the former would not remain to supper. He had to visit Mr Blurt, he said, and might perhaps sup with him. Pax would go with him.

"Well, my lads, please yourselves," said Mr Flint,—wheeling the old woman to the table, on which smoked a plentiful supply of her favourite sausages.

"Let me take the cat off your lap, grannie," said May.

"Let the cat be, lassie; it's daein' nae ill. Are the callants gaein' oot?"

"Yes, grannie," said Phil, "we have business to attend to."

"Bizness!" exclaimed Mrs Flint. "Weel, weel, they lay heavy burdens on 'ee at that Post-Office. Night an' day—night an' day. They've maist killed my Solomon. They've muckle to answer for."

In her indignation she clenched her fist and brought it down on her knee. Unfortunately the cat came between the fist and the knee. With its usual remonstrative mew it fled and found a place of rest and refuge in the coal-box.

"But it's not to the Post-Office we're goin', grannie," said Phil, laying his hand kindly on the old woman's shoulder.

"What o' that? what o' that?" she exclaimed somewhat testily at being corrected, "has that onything to dae wi' the argiment? If ye git yer feet wat, bairns, mind to chynge them—an' whatever ye dae—"

She stopped suddenly. One glance at her placid old countenance sufficed to show that she had retired to the previous century, from which nothing now could recall her except sausages. The youths therefore went out.

Meanwhile Mr Enoch Blurt sat in his brother's back shop entertaining a visitor. The shop itself had, for a considerable time past, been put under the care of an overgrown boy, who might—by courtesy and a powerful stretch of truth—have been styled a young man.

Jiggs—he appeared to have no other name—was simply what men style a born idiot: not sufficiently so to be eligible for an asylum, but far enough gone to be next to useless. Mr Blurt had picked him up somewhere, in a philanthropic way—no one ever knew how or where—during one of his many searches after George Aspel. Poor Mr Blurt was not happy in his selection of men or boys. Four of the latter whom he had engaged to attend the shop and learn the business had been dismissed for rough play with the specimens, or making free with the till when a few coppers chanced to be in it. They had failed, also, to learn the business; chiefly because there was no business to learn, and Mr Enoch Blurt did not know how to teach it. When he came in contact with Jiggs, Mr Blurt believed he had at last secured a prize, and confided that belief to Mrs Murridge. So he had, as regards honesty. Jiggs was honest to the core; but as to other matters he was defective—to say the least. He could, however, put up and take down the shutters, call Mr Blurt down-stairs if wanted—which he never was; and tell customers, when he was out, to call again—which he never did, as customers never darkened the door. Jiggs, however, formed a sufficient scarecrow to street boys and thieves.

The visitor in the back shop—to whom we now return—was no less a personage than Miss Gentle, whose acquaintance Mr Blurt had made on board the ill-fated mail steamer Trident. That lady had chanced, some weeks before, to pass the ornithological shop, and, looking in, was struck dumb by the sight of the never-forgotten fellow-passenger who had made her a confidant. Recovering speech, she entered the shop and introduced herself. The introduction was needless. Mr Blurt recognised her at once, dropped his paper, extended both hands, gave her a welcome that brought even Jiggs back to the verge of sanity, and had her into the back shop, whence he expelled Mrs Murridge to some other and little-known region of the interior.

The interview was so agreeable that Mr Blurt begged it might be repeated. It was repeated four times. The fifth time it was repeated by special arrangement in the evening, for the purpose of talking over a business matter.

"I fear, Miss Gentle," began Mr Blurt, when his visitor was seated in the back shop, and Mrs Murridge had been expelled to the rear as usual, and Jiggs had been left on guard in the front—"I fear that you may think it rude in me to make such a proposal, but I am driven to it by necessity, and—the fact is, I want you to become a nurse."

"A nurse, Mr Blurt!"

"There, now, don't take offence. It's below your position, I dare say, but I have gathered from you that your circumstances are not—are not— not exactly luxurious, and,—in short, my poor brother Fred is a hopeless invalid. The doctors say he will never be able to leave his bed. Ah! if those diamonds I once spoke to you about had only been mine still, instead of adorning the caves of crabs and fishes, Miss Gentle, I would have had half-a-dozen of the best nurses in London for dear Fred. But the diamonds are gone! I am a poor man, a very poor man, Miss Gentle, and I cannot afford a good nurse. At the same time, I cannot bear to think of Fred being, even for a brief period, at the mercy of cheap nurses, who, like other wares, are bad when cheap—although, of course, there may be a few good ones even among the cheap. What I cannot buy, therefore, I must beg; and I have come to you, as one with a gentle and pitiful spirit, who may, perhaps, take an interest in my poor brother's case, and agree to help us."

Having said all this very fast, and with an expression of eager anxiety, Mr Blurt blew his nose, wiped his bald forehead, and, laying both hands on his knees, looked earnestly into his visitor's face.

"You are wrong, Mr Blurt, in saying that the office of nurse is below my position. It is below the position of no one in the land. I may not be very competent to fill the office, but I am quite willing to try."

"My dear madam," exclaimed the delighted Mr Blurt, "your goodness is— but I expected as much. I knew you would. Of course," he said, interrupting himself, "all the menial work will be done by Mrs Murridge. You will be only required to fill, as it were, the part of a daughter—or—or a sister—to my poor Fred. As to salary: it will be small, very small, I fear; but there are a couple of nice rooms in the house, which will be entirely at your—"

"I quite understand," interrupted Miss Gentle, with a smile. "We won't talk of these details, please, until you have had a trial of me, and see whether I am worthy of a salary at all!"

"Miss Gentle," returned Mr Blurt, with sudden gravity, "your extreme kindness emboldens me to put before you another matter of business, which I trust you will take into consideration in a purely business light.—I am getting old, madam."

Miss Gentle acknowledged the truth with a slight bow.

"And you are—excuse me—not young, Miss Gentle."

The lady acknowledged this truth with a slighter bow.

"You would not object to regard me in the light of a brother, would you?"

Mr Blurt took one of her hands in his, and looked at her earnestly.

Miss Gentle looked at Mr Blurt quite as earnestly, and replied that she had no objection whatever to that.

"Still further, Miss Gentle: if I were to presume to ask you to regard me in the light of a husband, would you object to that?"

Miss Gentle looked down and said nothing, from which Mr Blurt concluded that she did not object. She withdrew her hand suddenly, however, and blushed. There was a slight noise at the door. It was Jiggs, who, with an idiotical stare, asked if it was not time to put up the shutters!

The plan thus vexatiously interrupted was, however, ultimately carried into effect. Miss Gentle, regardless of poverty, the absence of prospects, and the certainty of domestic anxiety, agreed to wed Mr Enoch Blurt and nurse his brother. In consideration of the paucity of funds, and the pressing nature of the case, she also agreed to dispense with a regular honeymoon, and to content herself with, as it were, a honey-star at home.

Of course, the event knocked poor Phil's little plans on the head for the time being, though it did not prevent his resolving to do his utmost to bring his mother to London.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

LIGHT SHINING IN DARK PLACES.

Down by the river-side, in an out-of-the-way and unsavoury neighbourhood, George Aspel and Abel Bones went one evening into a small eating-house to have supper after a day of toil at the docks. It was a temperance establishment. They went to it, however, not because of its temperance but its cheapness. After dining they adjourned to a neighbouring public-house to drink.

Bones had not yet got rid of his remorse, nor had he entirely given up desiring to undo what he had done for Aspel. But he found the effort to do good more difficult than he had anticipated. The edifice pulled down so ruthlessly was not, he found, to be rebuilt in a day. It is true, the work of demolition had not been all his own. If Aspel had not been previously addicted to careless living, such a man as Bones never could have had the smallest chance of influencing him. But Bones did not care to reason deeply. He knew that he had desired and plotted the youth's downfall, and that downfall had been accomplished. Having fallen from such a height, and being naturally so proud and self sufficient, Aspel was proportionally more difficult to move again in an upward direction.

Bones had tried once again to get him to go to the temperance public-house, and had succeeded. They had supped there once, and were more than pleased with the bright, cheerful aspect of the place, and its respectable and sober, yet jolly, frequenters. But the cup of coffee did not satisfy their depraved appetites. The struggle to overcome was too much for men of no principle. They were self-willed and reckless. Both said, "What's the use of trying?" and returned to their old haunts.

On the night in question, after supping, as we have said, they entered a public-house to drink. It was filled with a noisy crew, as well as with tobacco-smoke and spirituous fumes. They sat down at a retired table and looked round.

"God help me," muttered Aspel, in a low husky voice, "I've fallen very low!"

"Ay," responded Bones, almost savagely, "very low."

Aspel was too much depressed to regard the tone. The waiter stood beside them, expectant. "Two pints of beer," said Bones,—"ginger- beer," he added, quickly.

"Yessir."

The waiter would have said "Yessir" to an order for two pints of prussic acid, if that had been an article in his line. It was all one to him, so long as it was paid for. Men and women might drink and die; they might come and go; they might go and not come—others would come if they didn't,—but he would go on, like the brook, "for ever," supplying the terrible demand.

As the ginger-beer was being poured out the door opened, and a man with a pack on his back entered. Setting down the pack, he wiped his heated brow and looked round. He was a mild, benignant-looking man, with a thin face.

Opening his box, he said in a loud voice to the assembled company, "Who will buy a Bible for sixpence?"

There was an immediate hush in the room. After a few seconds a half-drunk man, with a black eye, said—"We don't want no Bibles 'ere. We've got plenty of 'em at 'ome. Bibles is only for Sundays."

"Don't people die on Mondays and Saturdays?" said the colporteur, for such he was. "It would be a bad job if we could only have the Bible on Sundays. God's Word says, 'To-day if ye will hear His voice, harden not your hearts.' 'Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.' 'Now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation.' It says the same on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and every day of the week."

"That's all right enough, old fellow," said another man, "but a public is not the right place to bring a Bible into."

Turning to this man the colporteur said quietly, "Does not death come into public-houses? Don't people die in public-houses? Surely it is right to take the Word of God into any place where death comes, for 'after death the judgment.' 'The blood of Jesus Christ, God's Son, cleanseth us from all sin.'"

"Come, come, that'll do. We don't want none of that here," said the landlord of the house.

"Very well, sir," said the man respectfully, "but these gentlemen have not yet declined to hear me."

This was true, and one of the men now came forward to look at the contents of the box. Another joined him.

"Have you any book that'll teach a man how to get cured of drink?" asked one, who obviously stood greatly in need of such a book.

"Yes, I have. Here it is—The Author of the Sinner's Friend; it is a memoir of the man who wrote a little book called The Sinner's Friend," said the colporteur, producing a thin booklet in paper cover, "but I'd recommend a Bible along with it, because the Bible tells of the sinner's best friend, Jesus, and remember that without Him you can do nothing. He is God, and it is 'God who giveth us the victory.' You can't do it by yourself, if you try ever so much."

The man bought the booklet and a Testament. Before he left the place that colporteur had sold a fourpenny and a twopenny Testament, and several other religious works, beside distributing tracts gratuitously all round. [See Report of "The Christian Colportage Association for England," 1879, page 12.]

"That's what I call carryin' the war into the enemy's camp," remarked one of the company, as the colporteur thanked them and went away.

"Come, let's go," said Aspel, rising abruptly and draining his glass of ginger-beer.

Bones followed his example. They went out and overtook the colporteur.

"Are there many men going about like you?" asked Aspel.

"A good many," answered the colporteur. "We work upwards of sixty districts now. Last year we sold Bibles, Testaments, good books and periodicals, to the value of 6700 pounds, besides distributing more than 300,000 tracts, and speaking to many people the blessed Word of Life. It is true we have not yet done much in public-houses, but, as you saw just now, it is not an unhopeful field. That branch has been started only a short time ago, yet we have sold in public-houses above five hundred Bibles and Testaments, and over five thousand Christian books, besides distributing tracts."

"It's a queer sort o' work," said Bones. "Do you expect much good from it?"

The colporteur replied, with a look of enthusiasm, that he did expect much good, because much had already been done, and the promise of success was sure. He personally knew, and could name, sinners who had been converted to God through the instrumentality of colporteurs; men and women who had formerly lived solely for themselves had been brought to Jesus, and now lived for Him. Swearers had been changed to men of prayer and praise, and drunkards had become sober men—

"Through that little book, I suppose?" asked Bones quickly.

"Not altogether, but partly by means of it."

"Have you another copy?" asked George Aspel.

The man at once produced the booklet, and Aspel purchased it.

"What do you mean," he said, "by its being only 'partly' the means of saving men from drink?"

"I mean that there is no Saviour from sin of any kind but Jesus Christ. The remedy pointed out in that little book is, I am told, a good and effective one, but without the Spirit of God no man has power to persevere in the application of the remedy. He will get wearied of the continuous effort; he will not avoid temptation; he will lose heart in the battle unless he has a higher motive than his own deliverance to urge him on. Why, sirs, what would you expect from the soldier who, in battle, thought of nothing but himself and his own safety, his own deliverance from the dangers around him? Is it not those men who boldly face the enemy with the love of Queen and country and comrades and duty strong in their breasts, who are most likely to conquer? In the matter of drink the man who trusts to remedies alone will surely fail, because the disease is moral as well as physical. The physical remedy will not cure the soul's disease, but the moral remedy—the acceptance of Jesus— will not only cure the soul, but will secure to us that spiritual influence which will enable us to 'persevere to the end' with the physical. Thus Jesus will save both soul and body—'it is God who giveth us the victory.'"

They parted from the colporteur at this point.

"What think you of that?" asked Bones.

"It is strange, if true—but I don't believe it," replied Aspel.

"Well now, it appears to me," rejoined Bones, "that the man seems pretty sure of what he believes, and very reasonable in what he says, but I don't know enough about the subject to hold an opinion as to whether it's true or false."

It might have been well for Aspel if he had taken as modest a view of the matter as his companion, but he had been educated—that is to say, he had received an average elementary training at an ordinary school,— and on the strength of that, although he had never before given a serious thought to religion, and certainly nothing worthy of the name of study, he held himself competent to judge and to disbelieve!

While they walked towards the City, evening was spreading her grey mantle over the sky. The lamps had been lighted, and the enticing blaze from gin-palaces and beer-shops streamed frequently across their path.

At the corner of a narrow street they were arrested by the sound of music in quick time, and energetically sung.

"A penny gaff," remarked Bones, referring to a low music-hall; "what d'ee say to go in?"

Aspel was so depressed just then that he welcomed any sort of excitement, and willingly went.

"What's to pay?" he asked of the man at the door.

"Nothing; it's free."

"That's liberal anyhow," observed Bones, as they pushed in.

The room was crowded by people of the lowest order—men and women in tattered garments, and many of them with debauched looks. A tall thin man stood on the stage or platform. The singing ceased, and he advanced.

"Bah!" whispered Aspel, "it's a prayer-meeting. Let's be off."

"Stay," returned Bones. "I know the feller. He comes about our court sometimes. Let's hear what he's got to say."

"Friends," said Mr Sterling, the city missionary, for it was he, "I hold in my hand the Word of God. There are messages in this Word—this Bible—for every man and woman in this room. I shall deliver only two of these messages to-night. If any of you want more of 'em you may come back to-morrow. Only two to-night. The first is, 'Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be as white as snow, though they be red like crimson they shall be as wool.' The other is, 'It is God who giveth us the victory.'"

Bones started and looked at his companion. It seemed as if the missionary had caught up and echoed the parting words of the colporteur.

Mr Sterling had a keen, earnest look, and a naturally eloquent as well as persuasive tongue. Though comparatively uneducated, he was deeply read in the Book which it was his life's work to expound, and an undercurrent of intense feeling seemed to carry him along—and his hearers along with him—as he spoke. He did not shout or gesticulate: that made him all the more impressive. He did not speak of himself or his own feelings: that enabled his hearers to give undistracted attention to the message he had to deliver. He did not energise. On the contrary, it seemed as if he had some difficulty in restraining the superabundant energy that burned within him; and as people usually stand more or less in awe of that which they do not fully understand, they gave him credit, perhaps, for more power than he really possessed. At all events, not a sound was heard, save now and then a suppressed sob, as he preached Christ crucified to guilty sinners, and urged home the two "messages" with all the force of unstudied language, but well-considered and aptly put illustration and anecdote.

At one part of his discourse he spoke, with bated breath, of the unrepentant sinner's awful danger, comparing it to the condition of a little child who should stand in a blazing house, with escape by the staircase cut off, and no one to deliver—a simile which brought instantly to Bones's mind his little Tottie and the fire, and the rescue by the man he had resolved to ruin—ay, whom he had ruined, to all appearance.

"But there is a Deliverer in this case," continued the preacher. "'Jesus Christ came to seek and to save the lost;' to pluck us all as brands from the burning; to save us from the fire of sin, of impurity, of drink! Oh, friends, will you not accept the Saviour—"

"Yes! yes!" shouted Bones, in an irresistible burst of feeling, "I do accept Him!"

Every eye was turned at once on the speaker, who stood looking fixedly upwards, as though unaware of the sensation he had created. The interruption, however, was only momentary.

"Thanks be to God!" said the preacher. "There is joy among the angels of heaven over one sinner that repenteth."

Then, not wishing to allow attention to be diverted from his message, he continued his discourse with such fervour that the people soon forgot the interrupter, and Bones forgot them and himself and his friend, in contemplation of the "Great Salvation."

When the meeting was over he hurried out into the open air. Aspel followed, but lost him in the crowd. After searching a few minutes without success, he returned to Archangel Court without him.

The proud youth was partly subdued, though not overcome. He had heard things that night which he had never heard before, as well as many things which, though heard before, had never made such an impression as then. Lighting the remnant of the candle in the pint-bottle, he pulled out the little book which he had purchased, and began to read, and ever as he read there seemed to start up the words, "It is God who giveth us the victory." At last he came to the page on which the prescription for drunkards is printed in detail. He read it with much interest and some hope, though, of course, being ignorant of medicine, it conveyed no light to his mind.

"I'll try it at all events," he muttered in a somewhat desponding tone; "but I've tried before now to break off the accursed habit without success, and have my doubts of this, for—"

He paused, for the words, "It is God that giveth us the victory," leaped again to his mind with tenfold power.

Just then there arose a noise of voices in the court. Presently the sound of many footsteps was heard in the passage. The shuffling feet stopped at the door, and some one knocked loudly.