“I want to know where you were at half-past three o’clock to-day?” was my significant reply. “On with your things and trudge. You’ve got drunk too soon—you’ve overdone it. Man, see, there’s the slush off your boots all over the floor.” “I haven’t been across the door since morning,” he solemnly protested, on which M^cSweeny somewhat savagely remarked that “we believed him every word.” While M^cSweeny was helping him to put on his clothes, and replying to his protests, I made a search through the room, and finally drew out from under the mattress the stolen watch and fragment of gold chain. Yorky stared as it was held up before his eyes, and became very sober indeed. “I never saw that in my life before; somebody must have put it there,” he cried, with the most vigorous swearing, all of which we listened to with great merriment and marked derision. “I thought we should sober you before long,” I said to him, as I fastened his wrist to my own. “We’ll see what the owner of the watch says to it.” The owner of the watch had a great deal to say, all of which astonished Yorky beyond description. The watch and fragment of chain he identified at a glance, and Yorky as well. He swore most positively that Yorky was the man who attacked him—he had had too good a view of the rascal’s features and dress to have a moment’s doubt on the matter. Yorky, as he listened to it, was a picture to behold. He scratched his head in the most solemn manner imaginable, and muttered to himself— “I _was_ very tight, but I never yet did anything in drink that I couldn’t remember when sober. I can’t make it out at all; but I know I’m as innocent as a lamb.” A grin ran round the room as he uttered the words, and, after a word with the superintendent, the “lamb” was led off to the cells. He was next day remitted to the High Court of Justiciary. I strongly advised him to plead guilty, but the wilful man would have his own way, and took the opposite course. Then the Fiscal pointed out that Yorky had been often convicted of the same crime, and produced a list of these, and demanded the heaviest penalty. The judge promptly responded to the appeal by sentencing Yorky to fourteen years’ penal servitude. As he was being removed, a voice among the audience behind exclaimed— “Ah, Yorky, what a time it’ll be before you can make me lose another race!” The voice came from The Gander. So elated was that worthy over the success of his scheme that he took to boasting of the feat, and giving details to his companions, and thus the story eventually reached my ears. Shortly after, when taking The Gander for helping himself to a bank-note out of a coat pocket in one of the actors’ dressing-rooms, I twitted him about depriving the sporting world of such a treasure as Yorky. He denied the whole, but with a twinkle of superlative cunning and delight in his eyes. “I never before believed it possible to overreach a Yorkshire man,” I suggestively remarked.