In the Christmas and Easter vacations, the haunts of “the Fancy,” as they were called (a name more fitting to beautiful ladies than to prize-fighters), in the neighbourhood of St. Martin’s Lane, were very attractive to a young undergraduate who felt himself big and proud when he was greeted by and had shaken hands with such celebrities as I have mentioned above. There, too, he would meet many of the well-known patrons of the ring—Napier Sturt, Billy and Folly Duff and others. Billy was a great character of whom many a queer story was told. Rat-killing, badger-drawing and other kindred sports brought him into contact with all the dog-dealers or dog-stealers, for I fancy that in London the two trades were often interchanged in those days; perhaps they are still. A lady whom he knew lost a pet dog and was miserable, so she wrote and complained piteously to Billy Duff, who said he would try and get it back for her. Off he went to the house of a famous dog-dealer, and was told that he was not at home. Billy asked to see the wife—oh! yes, the wife was at home, but she had had a baby a few days since and was in bed. Billy said that did not signify; he would just go upstairs and see her for a moment as he had something important to tell her. So up he went and found Mrs. L—, who on hearing the case, swore by all her gods that her husband knew nothing about it. Something in the good woman’s too positive manner aroused Billy’s suspicion, so he took the baby out of its cradle and told her that he was going to carry it off and (he stammered badly), “as soon as his friend got her d-d-d-dog back he would return the b-b-b-aby.” Downstairs he went with the baby, and in two hours the bereaved lady was shedding tears of joy over her dog.