pursuit, kept well up, thus forming
a sort of connecting-link between the fugitive and pursuers, and even
took upon himself to shout "Stop thief!" as he ran. Miles endeavoured
to throw him off by putting on, as schoolboys have it, "a spurt." But
the active little man also spurted and did not fall far behind. Then
Miles tried a second double, and got into a narrow street, which a
single glance showed him was a blind alley! Disappointment and anger
hereupon took possession of him, and he turned at bay with the
tiger-like resolve to run a-muck!

Fortunately for himself he observed a pot of whitewash standing near a
half-whitened wall, with a dirty canvas frock and a soiled billycock
lying beside it. The owner of the property had left it inopportunely,
for, quick as thought, Miles wriggled into the frock, flung on the
billycock, seized the pot, and walked in a leisurely way to the head of
the alley. He reached it just as the active little man turned into it,
at the rate of ten miles an hour. A yell of "Stop thief!" issued from
the man's presumptuous lips at the moment.

His injunction was obeyed to the letter, for the would-be thief of an
honest man's character on insufficient evidence was stopped by Miles's
bulky person so violently that the whitewash was scattered all about,
and part of it went into the active man's eyes.

To squash the large brush into the little man's face, and thus
effectually complete what his own recklessness had begun, was the work
of an instant. As he did it, Miles assumed the role of the injured
party, suiting his language to his condition.

"What d'ee mean by that, you houtrageous willain?" he cried savagely, to
the great amusement of the bystanders, who instantly formed a crowd
round them. "Look wot a mess you've bin an' made o' my clean frock!
Don't you see?"

The poor little man could not see. He could only cough and gasp and
wipe his face with his coat-tails.

"I'd give you in charge o' the pleece, I would, if it wasn't that you've
pretty well punished yourself a'ready," continued Miles. "Take 'im to a
pump some o' you, 'cause I ain't got time. Good-day, spider-legs, an'
don't go for to run into a hartist again, with a paint-pot in 'is 'and."

So saying, Miles pushed through the laughing crowd and sauntered away.
He turned into the first street he came to, and then went forward as
fast as was consistent with the idea of an artisan in a hurry. Being
utterly ignorant of the