Hooting, laughing in the alley, "What is that?" he cried half frightened; "What is that? Now tell me, mother!" And the fuddled Norah answered, "That's the thieves and prigs together, Talking in their own cant language, Hoaxing, chaffing one another." Then the little Drop o' Wather Learned of all the thieves their language; Learned their slang and learned their by-words, Twigged their nicknames, knew their lodgings, Where they hid themselves from justice; Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Drop o' Wather's Cronies." Of all prigs he learned the language, Learned their gag, and all their secrets. Found out all their haunts and dodges, Picked up where they hid their booty, How they packed the swag so closely, Why they fought so shy and wary; Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Drop o' Wather's Brothers." II. DROP O' WATHER AND PUDGY-WHEEZY. Out of childhood into manhood Now had grown young Drop o' Wather, Skilled in all the craft of filchers, Learned in all the slang of robbers, In all ways and means of cribbing, In all knowing arts and dodges. Swift of foot was Drop o' Wather; He could pitch a pebble from him, And run forward with such fleetness, That the pebble fell behind him! Strong of arm was Drop o' Wather; He could fling ten pebbles upward, Fling them with such strength and swiftness, That the tenth had left his fingers Ere the first to ground had fallen. He had bludgeon, Millemlikefun, Good strong bludgeon, made of ash-wood; When into his hand he took it, He could smite a fellow's head off, He could knock him into next week. He had ankle-boots so jemmy, Good strong ankle-boots of calf-skin; When he put them on his trotters, When he laced them up so tightly, At each step three feet he measured. From his lair went Drop o' Wather Dressed for roving, armed for plunder; Dressed in shooting-jacket natty, Velveteen, with pearl-white buttons; On his head a spick-and-span tile, Round his waist a vest of scarlet; In his mouth a sprig of shamrock, In his breast a dashing brooch-pin, Gold mosaic, set with sham stones; With his bludgeon, Millemlikefun, With his ankle-boots so jemmy. Warning said old fuddled Norah, "Go not forth, son Drop o' Wather, To the quarter of the West-End, To the regions, Hyde-Park, May Fair, Lest they nab you (chaps from Bow-street), Lest they clap you into prison." But the daring Drop o' Wather Heeded not her woman's warning; Forth he went along the alley, At each step three feet he measured; Tempting looked the shops about him, Tempting looked the things within them; Bright and fine the showy jewels, Smart and gay the newest fashions, Brown and smooth cigars in boxes,