No sooner said than done. The door was slammed in our Reporter's face, and he was "left out in the cold," as the saying is. What, now, was our Reporter to do? He had no intention of giving up his search; the woof of his nature is strong and tough, and difficulties rather inspire than depress him. Within a stone's throw from a weak hand there were six public-houses; within a stone's throw from any one of these were half-a-dozen other public-houses. It was as though a huge pepper-box, filled with public-houses, had been shaken over the neighbourhood. There was a certain peculiarity in the order and arrangement of their fall. Most of them had fallen into the corners of the courts and narrow streets. There must be a Providence in this--a Providence which, watching over the welfare of brewers and distillers, has conferred upon them and upon their heirs and assigns an inalienable right in the corners of every street and lane in the restless Babylonian City. Our Reporter made the rounds of these public-houses, ordered liquor in every one of them, and poured it on the floor--to the indignation of many topers, who called it "sinful waste;" especially to the indignation of one blear-eyed, grey-haired, old woman, with three long strong hairs sticking out of her chin. This old creature, who looked as if she had just stepped away from the witches' cauldron in Macbeth (the brew there not being strong enough), screamed out to our Reporter, "You'll come to want! You'll come to want! For Gawd's sake, don't spill it, my dear! Give it to me--give it to me!" and struggled with him for the liquor. Within half-an-hour of midnight our Reporter found himself once more before the house in which he supposed Antony Cowlrick would sleep that night. But he was puzzled what to do. To ring the bells again was hazardous. He determined to wait until a lodger entered the house; then he himself would enter and try the chamber doors. The minutes passed. No guardian angel of a lodger came to his aid. But all at once he felt a tug at his trousers. He looked down. It was a little girl. A very mite of a girl. "If yer please, sir----" "Yes, little one," said our Reporter. "Will yer pull the blue bell, and knock five times? I can't reach." [Decoration] CHAPTER X. THE SPECIAL REPORTER OF THE "EVENING MOON" MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A LITTLE MATCH GIRL. Pull the blue bell, and knock five times! The request was not to be denied. That the small party who made it could _not_ "reach" was self-evident, for she was scarcely three feet and a half in height. But to say, "pull the blue bell" was one thing, and to pull the blue bell was another. Our Reporter had pulled every bell on the door, as he believed, and he looked in vain for a blue one. "I don't see the blue bell, little girl," he said. "Yes, yer do," replied the little girl, with audacious effrontery. "Not where yer looking! It's all by itself on the other side."