‘Which is the man?’—‘D—me!’ says Chickweed, ‘I’ve lost him again!’ “It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn’t to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house; and next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out from behind the curtain for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn’t help shutting ’em to ease ’em a minute, and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed roaring out, ‘Here he is!’ Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday’s one, the man’s lost again! This was done once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief.” “What did Jem Spyers say?” inquired the doctor, who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story. “Jem Spyers,” resumed the officer, “for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which shewed he understood his business. But one morning he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuff-box, said, ‘Chickweed, I’ve found out who’s done this here robbery.’—‘Have you?’ said Chickweed. ‘Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain?’—‘Come!’ said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff, ‘none of that gammon! You did it yourself.’ So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would ever have found it out, if he hadn’t been so precious anxious to keep up appearances; that’s more!” said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together. “Very curious, indeed,” observed the doctor. “Now, if you please, you can walk up stairs.” “If _you_ please, sir,” returned Mr. Blathers; and closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver’s bedroom, Mr. Giles preceding the party with a lighted candle. Oliver had been dozing, but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so, and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward, and, in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing. “This,” said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, “this is the lad, who, being accidentally wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d’ye-call-him’s grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand, who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify.” [Illustration: _Oliver waited on by the Bow-Street Runners._ London, Richard Bentley, May 1, 1838.]