us sprocket-wheel,
indicating a gear of, at least, ninety.

"Some scorcher or amateur racer, probably," I said, "who takes the
opportunity of getting a spin on the wood pavement when the streets are
empty." I looked round to see if I could identify the owner, but the
machine appeared to be, for the moment, taking care of itself. King's
Cross is one of those districts of which the inhabitants are slow in
settling down for the night, and even at a quarter past one in the
morning its streets are not entirely deserted. Here and there the
glimmer of a street lamp or the far-reaching ray from a tall electric
light reveals the form of some nocturnal prowler creeping along with
cat-like stealthiness, or bursting, cat-like, into unmelodious song. Not
greatly desirous of the society of these roysterers, we crossed quickly
from the station into the Gray's Inn Road, now silent and excessively
dismal in aspect, and took our way along the western side. We had turned
the curve and were crossing Manchester Street, when a series of yelps
from ahead announced the presence of a party of merry-makers, whom we
were not yet able to see, however, for the night was an exceptionally
dark one; but the sounds of revelry continued to increase in volume as
we proceeded, until, as we passed Sidmouth Street, we came in sight of
the revellers. They were some half-dozen in number, all of them roughs
of the hooligan type, and they were evidently in boisterous spirits,
for, as they passed the entrance to the Royal Free Hospital, they halted
and battered furiously at the gate. Shortly after this exploit they
crossed the road on to our side, whereupon Thorndyke caught my arm and
slackened his pace.

"Let them draw ahead," said he. "It is a wise precaution to give all
hooligan gangs a very wide berth at this time of night. We had better
turn down Heathcote Street and cross Mecklenburgh Square."

We continued to walk on at reduced speed until we reached Heathcote
Street, into which we turned and so entered Mecklenburgh Square, where
we mended our pace once more.

"The hooligan," pursued Thorndyke, as we walked briskly across the
silent square, "covers a multitude of sins, ranging from highway robbery
with violence and paid assassination (technically known as 'bashing')
down to the criminal folly of the philanthropic magistrate, who seems to
think that his function in the economy of nature is to secure the
survival of the unfittest. There goes a cyclist