The worst of the brute is, that he comes not alone—that he has a friend, a brother wolf with him, who hankers round the corner, and is always ready to pop in at the door at the slightest suspicion of a summons. This wolf is a full-paunched rogue, and liberal, too, of succulent, but _poisoned_ food to his friends. This is the thief wolf, the gallows wolf, the Calcraft wolf. _Lupus carnifex_. He keeps up an incessant whining baying, which, being interpreted, means, “Work no more. See how hard the life is. What’s the good of working? Come and Steal.” Look here, my lords and gentlemen—look here, my right honourable friends—look here, my noble captains—look here, your honours’ worships—come out of your carriages, come out of your clubs, come out of your shooting-boxes in the Highlands, and your _petites maisons_ in the Regent’s Park, and look at these faded and patched creatures. I tell you that they have to rise early and go to bed late—that they have to work hours and hours before they can turn one penny. They have never been taught; they are seldom fed, and more seldom washed; but _they don’t steal_. I declare that it is a wonder they do not—a marvel and a miracle they do not. They remain steadfastly honest; for, in the troubled sea of their lives, Almighty Mercy has planted a Pharos, or light-house. The night is pitchy black oft enough; the light revolves—is for a time invisible—and the poor forlorn, tempest-torn man watches the blank horizon in all but mute despair; but the blessed gladdening gleam comes round again, as we have all seen it many a time on the ocean, and, sighing, the honest man resolutely keeps on his course.