far to make up for his deficiencies in
other respects.

In point of fact, he was not fighting his own battle, but that of
little Patsy Connors, whose paltry, yet to him precious, plaything had
been brutally snatched away from him by Mike Hoolihan, and who had
appealed to Terry to obtain its return.

The contest had waged but a few minutes, and the issue was still
uncertain, when a shrill cry of, "The peelers! the peelers! they're
comin' up the street!" caused a dispersion of the crowd, so speedy and
so complete that the boys composing it seemed to vanish like spirits;
and when the big blue-coated, silver-buttoned policemen reached the
spot, there was nothing to arrest but a woebegone puppy, who regarded
them with an expression that meant as plainly as possible,--

"Please, sirs, it wasn't me; and I don't know where they've gone to."

So the guardians of the peace were fain, after giving an indignant
glance around, to retire in good order, but with empty hands.

* * * * *

A life divided between Blind Alley and the Long Wharf could hardly have
had a hopeful outlook. Blind Alley was the most miserable collection
of tumble-down tenements in Halifax. It led off from the narrowest
portion of Water Street, in between two forbidding rows of filthy,
four-storied houses, nearly every window of which represented a family,
and brought up suddenly against the grim and grimy walls of a brewery,
whence issued from time to time the thick, oppressive vapours of
steaming malt.

The open space between the rows of houses was little better than a
gutter, through which you had to pick your way with careful steps if
you did not wish to carry off upon your boots and clothing unsavoury
reminders of the place.

Little wonder, then, that so soon as the children of Blind Alley were
big enough to walk they hastened to desert their repulsive playground,
in spite of the shrill summons back from their unkempt mothers, who,
though they made no attempt to keep them clean, loved them too much to
think with composure of their being exposed to the many dangers of
busy, bustling Water Street.

It is safe to say that you could not peer into Blind Alley during any
of the hours of daylight without hearing stout Mrs. M'Carthy, or
red-haired Mrs. Hoolihan, or some other frowsy matron with no less
powerful lungs, calling out from her window,--

"Patsy! Norah! where are ye now, ye little villains? Ye're the plague
of my