“Of course the lady knows that, don’t she?” demanded Mr. Blathers. “Always interrupting, you are, partner. This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cockfighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I’ve seen ’em off’en. He warn’t one of the family at that time, and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvass bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window, which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he was woke by the noise, and darting out of bed, fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry directly, and when they came to look about ’em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood all the way to some palings a good distance off, and there they lost ’em. However, he had made off with the blunt, and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don’t know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets for three or four days, pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he come up to the office all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a good deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house. ‘I see him, Spyers,’ said Chickweed, ‘pass my house yesterday morning.’—‘Why didn’t you up, and collar him?’ says Spyers.—‘I was so struck all of a heap that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,’ says the poor man; ‘but we’re sure to have him, for between ten and eleven o’clock at night he passed again.’ Spyers no sooner heard this than he put some clean linen and a comb in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind a little red curtain, with his hat on, already to bolt at a moment’s notice. He was smoking his pipe here late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out—‘Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!’ Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed tearing down the street full-cry. Away goes Spyers; on keeps Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out, ‘Thieves!’ and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner—shoots round—sees a little crowd—dives in.