hair, and cut up bad. Another girl swore a steady stream of oaths for half an hour, while the rest cut jokes with us to cover their chagrin. The sergeant found one man under the bed. He hauled him out by the heels, and the expression on that fellow’s face when the sergeant yanked him to his feet by the collar, would make a dog laugh. Another fellow had been hid his girl in a narrow closet, and when found he was bleeding at the nose. In a little while he would have been smothered. It was rather a queer procession back to the station. Some of them were singing, others crying, while the rest of them were swearing like dock-wollopers.” A CUTE GIRL. “One morning about two o’clock I was pacing my beat in a neighborhood where a large number of wealthy people resided. All at once I saw a female figure coming swiftly towards me, and when she reached me she proved to be a young and very handsome girl. She was all out of breath and greatly excited. She could hardly speak for a moment, and then she gasped out that some one had broken into her house and was raising a disturbance. ‘He threatened to kill me, sir; come along and arrest him.’ I never hesitated to go with the woman, and I started off. She took me away three or four blocks, and brought me into a house where a dim light was burning. There were a few dishes smashed on the floor, and some of the furniture was overturned, but that was all. We searched the house and the premises, but could find nobody, and after wasting about an hour I returned to my beat. Would you believe it? Two of them houses had been burglarized during my absence, and over $3,000 worth of stuff carried off.” “And the woman—?” “The woman steered me away from the spot while they went for the swag—you bet I’m not fooled like that again.” “Did you have her arrested?” “Pooh! what good would that do, man? She would have stuck to her story, and that would settle it. There would be simply a suspicion that her little yarn to me that night was made up, but no jury or magistrate would convict her.” THE FINDERS. “Hullo!” said my policeman friend as he glanced across at a house where a light suddenly appeared in one of the windows, “the finders are getting up.” “Finders; what are finders?” I inquired. “It’s no wonder you ask the question. It’s astonishing the different ways that some people do make their living in this city. A finder is a man who makes his living by finding things.” “Go on.” “The finders are chiefly colored people, living in the Ward. They sally out just at daybreak, and dividing up into squads, slowly patrol Yonge, King and Queen streets on both sides. As they stroll along they carefully scrutinize the sidewalks, alley entrances, door ways and the gutter in search of lost articles, money, etc.” “I wouldn’t think they would make much at that kind of work?”