The loafers from the corners had conceived a sudden notion of co-operation, and had joined forces to the array of twenty or thirty. Confident in their numbers, they swept the street, stopping every passenger--man, woman or child--and emptying all pockets. A straggler on the outskirts of the crowd, a hobbledehoy like most of the rest, had snatched at but had lost Dicky, and was now busy, with four or five others, rolling a woman, a struggling heap of old clothes and skinny limbs, in the road. It was Biddy Flynn, too old and worn for anything but honest work, who sold oranges and nuts from a basket, and who had been caught on her way out for her evening's trade in High Street. She was a fortunate capture, being a lone woman with all her possessions about her. Under her skirt, and tied round her waist with string, she kept her money-bag; and it was soon found and dragged away, yielding two and eightpence farthing and a lucky shoe-tip, worn round and bright. She had, moreover, an old brass brooch; but unfortunately her wedding ring, worn to pin-wire, could not be got past the knotted knuckle--though it would have been worth little in any case. So Biddy Flynn, exhausted with plunging and screaming, was left, and her empty basket was flung at her. She staggered away, wailing and rolling her head, with her hand to the wall; and the gang, sharing out, sucked oranges with relish, and turned to fresh exploits. Dicky watched from the Jago Court passage. Business slackened for a little while, and the loafers were contemplating a raid in force on Mother Gapp's till, when a grown lad ran in pell-mell from Luck Row with a square parcel clipped under his arm--a parcel of aspect well known among the fat's a-running boys--a parcel that meant tobacco. He was collared at once. 'Stow it, Bill!' he cried breathlessly, recognising his captor. 'The bloke's a-comin'!' But half-a-dozen hands were on his plunder, it was snatched away, and he was flung back on the flags. There was a clatter on the stones of Luck Row, and a light van came rattling into Old Jago Street, the horse galloping, the carman lashing and shouting:--'Stop 'im! Stop thief!' The sight was so novel that for a moment the gang merely stared and grinned. This man must be a greenhorn--new to the neighbourhood--to venture a load of goods up Luck Row. And it was tobacco, too. He was pale and flustered, and he called wildly, as he looked this way and that:--'A man's stole somethin' auf my van. Where's 'e gawn?' 'No good, guv'nor,' cried one. 'The ball's stopped rollin'. You're lawst 'im.' 'My Gawd!' said the man, in a sweat, 'I'm done. There's two quid's worth o' 'bacca--an' I on'y got the job o' Monday--bin out nine munse!' 'Was it a parcel like this 'ere?' asked another, chuckling, and lifting a second packet over the tailboard. 'Yus--put it down! Gawd--wotcher up to? 'Ere--'elp! 'elp!'