her, like wreckers into the surf;
and each plunge brings up a sample of misery, filth, and woe.

A woman--Eurasian--rises to a sitting position on a cot and blinks
sleepily at the Police. Then she throws herself down with a grunt.
"What's the matter with you?" "I live in Markiss Lane and"--this with
intense gravity--"I'm _so_ drunk." She has a rather striking gipsy-like
face, but her language might be improved.

"Come along," say the Police, "we'll head back to Bentinck Street, and
put you on the road to the Great Eastern." They walk long and steadily,
and the talk falls on gambling hells. "You ought to see our men rush one
of 'em. When we've marked a hell down, we post men at the entrances and
carry it. Sometimes the Chinese bite, but as a rule they fight fair.
It's a pity we hadn't a hell to show you. Let's go in here--there may be
something forward." "Here" appears to be in the heart of a Chinese
quarter, for the pigtails--do they ever go to bed?--are scuttling about
the streets. "Never go into a Chinese place alone," say the Police, and
swing open a postern gate in a strong, green door. Two Chinamen appear.

"What are we going to see?" "Japanese gir--No, we aren't, by Jove! Catch
that Chinaman, _quick_." The pigtail is trying to double back across a
courtyard into an inner chamber; but a large hand on his shoulder spins
him round and puts him in rear of the line of advancing Englishmen, who
are, be it observed, making a fair amount of noise with their boots. A
second door is thrown open, and the visitors advance into a large,
square room blazing with gas. Here thirteen pigtails, deaf and blind to
the outer world, are bending over a table. The captured Chinaman dodges
uneasily in the rear of the procession. Five--ten--fifteen seconds pass,
the Englishmen standing in the full light less than three paces from the
absorbed gang who see nothing. Then the burly Superintendent brings his
hand down on his thigh with a crack like a pistol-shot and shouts: "How
do, John?" Follows a frantic rush of scared Celestials, almost tumbling
over each other in their anxiety to get clear. One pigtail scoops up a
pile of copper money, another a chinaware soup-bowl, and only a little
mound of accusing cowries remains on the white matting that covers the
table. In less than half a minute two facts are forcibly brought home to
the visitor. First, that a pigtail is largely composed of silk, and
rasps the palm of the hand as it slides throug