to commit the words to memory.

To-morrow they will in quiet streets be whining out "Oh, where is my boy
to-night?" or "Will you meet me at the Fountain?"

Look again--here is a shabby-genteel man who lives by his wits. He is
fairly educated and can write a plausible letter. He is dangerous; his
stock-in-trade comprises local directories, WHO'S WHO, annual reports
of charitable societies, clergymen's lists, etc. He is a begging-letter
writer, and moves from lodging-house to lodging-house; he writes letters
for any of the inmates who have some particular tale of woe to unfold,
or some urgent appeal to make, and he receives the major part of the
resultant charity.

He is drunken and bestial, he is a parasite of the worst description,
for he preys alike on the benevolent and upon the poor wretches whose
cause he espouses.

He assumes many names, he changes his addresses adroitly, and ticks off
very carefully the names and addresses of people he has defrauded.
In fact, he is so clever and slippery that the police and the Charity
Organisation Society cannot locate him. So he thrives, a type of many,
for every one of London's common lodging-houses can provide us with one
or more such cunning rogues.

Yonder sits a "wandering boy" about twenty-eight years of age. He is not
thriving, and he must needs be content with simple bread and cheese. A
roll of cheap "pirated" music lies on his knee and proclaims his method
of living. His life has its dangers, for he has great difficulty in
providing five shillings for his pedlar's licence, and he runs great
risk of having his stock seized by the police, and being committed to
prison for a fine he cannot pay.

He has brought sorrow and disgrace upon his parents, no eye brightens at
the mention of his name. Alas! he is a specimen of the "homeless boy" of
whom his neighbours the minstrels will sing to-morrow. He is silent and
moody, for he is not in funds. Are there none among the company whom
sheer misfortune has brought down into this underworld? we ask. Aye,
there are, for in this kitchen there are representatives of all sorts
and conditions. See that man in the corner by himself, speaking to no
one, cooking nothing, eating nothing; he is thinking, thinking! This
is his first night in a common lodging-house; it is all new to him, he
thinks it all so terrible and disgusting.

He seems inclined to run and spend his night in the streets, and perhaps
it will be well for him to do s