"Tim put on the tats yesterday and went out a durry-nakin on the shallows, gadding the hoof. He buzzed a bloak and a shakester of a yack and a skin. His jomen Mutton-Face Sal, with her moll-sack queering a raclan, stalled. A cross-cove, who had his regulars, tipped the office '_Cop Busy!_' and Tim twigged that a pig was marking. So he speeled to the crib, while his jomen shoved her trunk too. To-day Tim sent the yack to church and christen; but the churchman came to it through poll, as Tim's shaler had slummed on him a sprat and an alderman last week. So Tim didn't fight cocum enough, and was grabbed. The skin had three finnips and a foont, which I've got at the padding-ken, T's 23, where I'll cop them to you for edging the gaff. A fly kidden-gonnoff will leave this flim. "TWENTY-FIVE." Old Death having read this singular composition to himself, threw it into the fire. He then sate pondering for a few moments upon the course which he should pursue under the circumstances just made known to him. And while he is thus engaged in meditation, we will lay before our readers a translation of the slang document:— "Tim dressed himself in rags yesterday, and went out disguised as a beggar half-naked and without shoes or stockings. He robbed a gentleman and a lady of a watch and a purse. His mistress Mutton-Face Sal, with her reticule, and looking like a respectable female, was on the look-out close at hand. A confederate-thief, who went shares with Tim, suddenly gave the alarm, so that Tim might hand him over the plunder; and Tim saw that a person was watching him. So he hurried off home, while his woman got off safely also. To-day Tim sent the watch to have the works taken out and put in another case and to get the maker's name altered; but the watch-maker informed against him through spite, because Tim's mistress had passed off on him (the watch-maker) a bad sixpence and half-crown last week. So Tim wasn't wary enough, and was taken into custody. The purse had three five-pound notes and a sovereign in it, which I have got at Thompson's lodging-house, No. 23, where I will hand them over to you if you will try and get Tim off. A sharp boy-thief will leave this letter." The signature "TWENTY-FIVE" indicated the number attached to the writer's name in Old Death's private list of those thieves who were accustomed to do business with him. "Any thing new?" inquired Mrs. Bunce, handing him a glass of hot gin-and-water. "Nothing particular," was the reply. "Only Tim the Snammer[2] got himself into a scrape. But I shall go and see about it directly." "Tim isn't on your list—is he?" demanded Mrs. Bunce. "No: but Josh Pedler—that's Number Twenty-five—has got Tim's money, and will hand it over to me. So——" A loud knock at the door interrupted Old Death's observation.