Now Master Michael, though absolutely deficient in education--his class, a sort of aristocracy of guttersnipes, was so in the pre-Board-School fifties,--was as sharp as a razor already even in the days of Dave Wardle's early accident, and had added a world of experience to his stock in the last few months. He had, in fact, been seeing the Metropolis, as an exponent or auxiliary of his father's vocation as a costermonger; and had made himself extremely useful, said Mr. Rackstraw, in the manner of speaking. Only the manner of speaking, strictly reported, did not use the expression _extremely_, but another one which we need not dwell upon except to make reference to its inappropriateness. Mr. Rackstraw was not a man of many words, so he had to fall back upon the same very often or hold his tongue: a course uncongenial to him. This word was a _piece de resistance_--a kind of sheet-anchor. In the course of these last few months of active costermongery, of transactions in early peas and new potatoes, spring-cabbage and ripe strawberries, he had acquired not only an insight into commerce but apparently an intimate knowledge of every street in London, and a very fair acquaintance with its celebrities; meaning thereby its real celebrities--its sportsmen, patrons of the Prize Ring, cricketers, rowing-men, billiard-players, jockeys--what not? Its less important representative men, statesmen, bishops, writers, artists, lawyers; soldiers and sailors even, though here concession was rife, had to take a second place. But there was one class--a class whose members may have belonged to any one of these--of which Michael's experience was very limited. It was the class of gaol-birds. This type, the most puzzling to eyes that see it for the first time, the most unmistakable by those well read in it, was the type that was now setting this juvenile coster's wits to work upon its classification, on this May morning in Sapps Court. Michael's previous record of him was an interrupted sight of his face in the river-garden at Hammersmith, and a reference to his felonious antecedents at the inquest. He was, by the time the conversation assumed the interest due to a hint of emolument, able to say to himself that he should know the Old Bailey again by the cut of its jib next time he came across it. In reply, he scorned circumlocution, saying briefly:--"Wot'll it come to? Wot are you good for? That's the p'int." "You tell me no lies and you'll see. There's an old widow-lady down this Court. Don't you go and say there ain't!" "There's any number. Which old widder?" "Name of Daverill. Old enough to be your father's granny." "No sich a name! There's one a sight older than that though--last house down the Court--top bell." "How old do you make her out?" "Two 'underd next birthday!" But Michael perceived in his questioner's eye a possible withdrawal of his offer of a consideration, and amended his statement:--"Ninety-nine, p'raps!--couldn't say to arf a minute."