wly on, having little hope of comfort in his home, and
not knowing very well what to do.

As he passed down one of the less frequented streets leading into
Whitechapel, he was arrested by the sight of a purse lying on the
pavement. To become suddenly alive, pick it up, glance stealthily
round, and thrust it into his pocket, was the work of an instant. The
saunter was changed into a steady businesslike walk. As he turned into
Commercial Street, Ned met Number 666 full in the face. He knew that
constable intimately, but refrained from taking notice of him, and
passed on with an air and expression which were meant to convey the idea
of infantine innocence. Guilty men usually over-reach themselves.
Giles noted the air, and suspected guilt, but, not being in a position
to prove it, walked gravely on, with his stern eyes straight to the
front.

In a retired spot Ned examined his "find." It contained six sovereigns,
four shillings, threepence, a metropolitan railway return ticket,
several cuttings from newspapers, and a recipe for the concoction of a
cheap and wholesome pudding, along with a card bearing the name of Mrs
Samuel Twitter, written in ink and without any address.

"You're in luck, Ned," he remarked to himself, as he examined these
treasures. "Now, old boy you 'aven't stole this 'ere purse, so you
ain't a thief; you don't know w'ere Mrs S.T. lives, so you can't find
'er to return it to 'er. Besides, it's more than likely she won't feel
the want of it--w'ereas I feels in want of it wery much indeed. Of
course it's my dooty to 'and it over to the p'lice, but, in the first
place, I refuse to 'ave any communication wi' the p'lice, friendly or
otherwise; in the second place, I 'ad no 'and in makin' the laws, so I
don't feel bound to obey 'em; thirdly, I'm both 'ungry an' thirsty, an'
'ere you 'ave the remedy for them afflictions, so, fourthly--'ere goes!"

Having thus cleared his conscience, Ned committed the cash to his vest
pocket, and presented the purse with its remaining contents to the rats
in a neighbouring sewer.

Almost immediately afterwards he met an Irishman, an old friend.

"Terence, my boy, well met!" he said, offering his hand.

"Hooroo! Ned Frog, sure I thought ye was in limbo!"

"You thought right, Terry; only half-an-hour out. Come along, I'll
stand you somethin' for the sake of old times. By the way, have you
done that job yet?"

"What job?"

"Why, the dynamite job, of course."