The prim-looking man smiled: ‘I suppose,’ said he, ‘that he has lost his money as well as book.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘I have not’; and pulling out my hand I displayed no less a sum than three half-crowns. ‘Oh, noble goddess of the Mint!’ as Dame Charlotta Nordenflycht, the Swede, said a hundred and fifty years ago, ‘great is thy power; how energetically the possession of thee speaks in favour of man’s character!’ ‘Only half-a-crown for this Bible?’ said I, putting down the money, ‘it is worth three’; and bowing to the man of the noble features, I departed with my purchase. ‘Queer customer,’ said the prim-looking man, as I was about to close the door—‘don’t like him.’ ‘Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say,’ said he of the countenance of a lion. CHAPTER FORTY-SIX THE PICKPOCKET—STRANGE RENCOUNTER—DRAG HIM ALONG—A GREAT SERVICE—THINGS OF IMPORTANCE—PHILOLOGICAL MATTERS—A MOTHER OF LANGUAGES A few days after the occurrence of what is recorded in the last chapter, as I was wandering in the City, chance directed my footsteps to an alley leading from one narrow street to another in the neighbourhood of Cheapside. Just before I reached the mouth of the alley, a man in a greatcoat, closely followed by another, passed it; and, at the moment in which they were passing, I observed the man behind snatch something from the pocket of the other; whereupon, darting into the street, I seized the hindermost man by the collar, crying at the same time to the other, ‘My good friend, this person has just picked your pocket.’ The individual whom I addressed, turning round with a start, glanced at me, and then at the person whom I held. London is the place for strange encounters. It appeared to me that I recognised both individuals—the man whose pocket had been picked and the other; the latter now began to struggle violently; ‘I have picked no one’s pocket,’ said he. ‘Rascal,’ said the other, ‘you have got my pocket-book in your bosom.’ ‘No, I have not,’ said the other; and, struggling more violently than before, the pocket-book dropped from his bosom upon the ground. The other was now about to lay hands upon the fellow, who was still struggling. ‘You had better take up your book,’ said I; ‘I can hold him.’ He followed my advice; and, taking up his pocket-book, surveyed my prisoner with a ferocious look, occasionally glaring at me. Yes, I had seen him before—it was the stranger whom I had observed on London Bridge, by the stall of the old apple-woman, with the cap and cloak; but, instead of these, he now wore a hat and greatcoat. ‘Well,’ said I, at last, ‘what am I to do with this gentleman of ours?’ nodding to the prisoner, who had now left off struggling. ‘Shall I let him go?’ ‘Go!’ said the other; ‘go! The knave—the rascal; let him go, indeed! Not so, he shall go before the Lord Mayor. Bring him along.’