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"Of course," said Sylvester, "you see the propriety of not mentioning this circumstance to any creature living."

"If you kdew be better, by boy," replied Tom, "you wouldd't thidk that observatiod at all decessary. But dow for the bachide," he added, going to the trap. "Let's set this gedtlebad, add thed we'll go to bed."

"You'll lock the door when we go out, of course?" suggested Sylvester.

"Do! dot a bit of it! It bay, you kdow, be wud of our fellows. If we leave the door oped, we shall catch hib either way—dod't you see?"

Sylvester acknowledged the wisdom of pursuing that course, and they set the trap, so that the slightest touch would cause the spring to operate at once; and when Tom had earnestly expressed his conviction that that machine would vindicate his honour, he set aside the things and saw Sylvester to his room, at the door of which, he bade him adieu for the night.

That night, Ninety-nine kept a sharp look-out: his look-out, in fact, was remarkably sharp: he never looked out more sharply. He crept into door-ways, peeped round corners, and ran behind cabs, that he might not be seen. He was very wide awake—nay enthusiastic! Didn't he wish for about half a chance!—didn't he pray for Tom's appearance upon the parapet! He had, it is true, been paid for the blow he received from Tom on the preceding night; but he panted for revenge! Revenge was his object: the attainment of which would have made him happy. Oh! if he could but have caught him!--but he couldn't: he couldn't see him: he couldn't see any one there. Still, he inspired a most lively hope—the hope of catching him some blessed night in a state of intoxication. Wouldn't he serve him out then—wouldn't he stick his knuckles into his throat—wouldn't he knock him about with his truncheon—wouldn't he drag him to the station like a dog! Perhaps he wouldn't—which, being interpreted, means that there was nothing apocryphal about it. That night, however, he was doomed to disappointment. The object of his hot and inextinguishable hate would not even appear at the window—he, therefore, concluded that he was afraid, and said so, with an air of triumph. The morning came. Tom had slept soundly. He had not been disturbed: he had heard no noise. He, therefore, on waking, feared that he should not have the power that day of taking his honour out of the gaol of suspicion, knowing well that his mother would not accept bail. He, however, thought it right to go up and have a look, and having