He considered the matter, though I was really laughing at him in my sleeve while making the suggestion; for, as may be guessed, I had no intention of allowing him to get down—alone. Then he said ruefully— “Which way are you going?” “Round by the back of the Castle towards the High Street,” was my prompt answer; and he directed me to drive on, signifying that he was going that way too—which was perfectly true. At the Puseyite Chapel he touched me on the arm and said—“I’ll get down here, sir, if you please.” I was driving along at a great speed and appeared not to hear him, and in a moment more we were tearing into the brightly-lighted Lawnmarket and High Street. “I wanted to get down,” he said reproachfully, and a little angrily, as we went careering madly down the street. “It’s all right,” I said; “I’m getting down in a minute myself;” and sure enough, in less than that time, I pulled up in front of the Central, where I gave the reins to a man, who delightedly exclaimed— “Oh, M^cGovan’s got him!” My prisoner gave me a look—long and steady—which spoke more than a thousand words, and then I helped him down with the words— “Come away, Johnston; we’ve had a very successful drive, haven’t we, though it has been disagreeably wet?” He replied in the affirmative, but the language in which it was couched was not clerical. That lift on the road cost him just five years’ penal servitude. I shall allude to him again. THE ORGAN-GRINDER’S MONEY-BAG. When the organ-grinder appeared in a distracted state at the Office, his face was quite familiar to me through seeing him on the streets and at race-courses and other gatherings with his organ. He was a big-bodied, swarthy man, with a full black beard, and, of course, till that moment I had taken him for an Italian. To hear the Irish brogue come pouring in a torrent out of his mouth, therefore, was a little startling. His very grief, and earnestness, and evident unconsciousness of anything ludicrous added comicality to the discovery, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I restrained a smile while he incoherently made known his loss. “The savings of tin years tuck from me in a lump,” he groaned, with a shower of lamentations; “and however the thafe did it, or found out where my money was, or that I had any to stale, I can’t for the life of me tell; for even my friend Tom Joson here thought I hadn’t a penny, and didn’t know where it was kept.”