e about the work"_). "WELL, MIKE,
HOW'S EVERYTHING GOING?"

_Mike_ (_confidentially_). "FAITH, BUT THEY'RE A DEAD FAILURE, SORR.
WHY, THREE WEEKS I'VE BEEN ON THIM TANKS AND NIVER WAN HAS RIZ OFF THE
GROUND YET."]

* * * * *

FURTHER REMINISCENCES.

(_WITH ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO MR. GEORGE R. SIMS_).

We come now to the beginning of the sixties. I well remember, early in
the summer of one of them, Gentleman Dick--we called him this because
his father had been a tramp, and, although he scarcely justified the
maternal strain (his mother had been a washerwoman), he was certainly
to all appearances his father's son--rushing in to tell me that
"Blue Satin," the prize bull bitch belonging to the proprietor of
that well-known tavern--public-houses were scarcely known in those
days--"The Seven Sisters," had given birth to a son.

This was an opportunity too good to be missed, and in spite of the
bitter cold I hurried off with Gentleman Dick, who already had
acquired no small reputation for his dexterity in hanging on to the
backs of cabs, and ultimately secured "Albert the Good." If I had to
christen a pup now I should naturally call him "Jellicoe the Brave."
"Albert the Good" scarcely lived up to his name and eventually I had
to get rid of him. He bit a piece out of a constable's leg. Sir J----
B----, the presiding magistrate at Bow Street, was most charming about
it however, and gave me a seat on the bench during the constable's
evidence.

I remember it especially because it was the day following this I was
in at the death, when Ebenezer Smith, the Mayfair murderer, came to
his end. He made an excellent breakfast of ham and eggs just before
his execution, the Governor was good enough to tell me, and was
collected enough even to grumble at the age of one of the eggs.

D---- L----, the famous comedian, was very funny always about his
eggs. I remember he had an idea that if you whistled to the hen before
the egg was laid the result tasted better when you ate it. He wanted
me to write a comic song for him on these lines, but the idea never
came to anything. I was very busy at the time collecting royalties.
The thousandth performance of _The Merry Murderers_ had just taken
place, and at last I felt free to shake the dust of the City from my
feet and devote myself to literature.

It was just about this time that Jim Peters became the idol of England
through knocking out the Black Bully--a colo