Flip was a small dried-up looking boy, born and brought up in a London slum. He had no parents--at least, none that he could remember, and had he been asked how he came into existence, he would probably have answered Topsy-like that he "growed." His mother and father had both deserted him at an early age, giving him nothing to remember them by, not even a name, so he was thrown on the world a squalling brat. Nevertheless, he managed to get along somehow to the age of fifteen, at which period of his life Dowker chanced on him, and his prospects began to improve.

Dowker, underneath his drab exterior, concealed a kind heart, and, having met Flip one night in the rain, had taken compassion on the miserable morsel of humanity, and given him a cup of coffee to warm him and a roll of bread to satisfy his hunger. Flip was so touched at this disinterested kindness that he attached himself with dog-like fidelity to the detective, and tried to serve him to the best of his small ability.

Having had to fight his way in the world, Flip had developed a wonderful sharpness of intellect at a very early age, and Dowker turned this hunger-educated instinct to good account, for he often set the little urchin to follow cabs, run messages, and do other small matters which he required. Flip performed all these duties so well and promptly that Dowker began to take an interest in him, and set to work to cultivate this stunted flower which had sprung up amid the evil weeds of the slums. He had a meeting place appointed with Flip in Drury Lane, and, whenever he wanted him, went there to seek him out. Flip listened to his patron's instructions carefully, and, having a wonderfully tenacious memory of an uncivilized kind, he never forgot what he was told. In return for services rendered, Dowker gave him a shilling a week, and on this small sum Flip managed to exist, with occasional help from casual passers-by.

Dowker did not give him an education or dress him in decent clothes, as he thought this would spoil his instinct and appearance, both of which were essentially useful in their own particular way, so Flip remained ragged and ignorant; but it was his patron's intention to give him a chance of rising in the world when he grew older.

He had no name except Flip, and the origin of that was a mystery--no clothes except a pair of baggy trousers and a tattered shirt--and his home was a noisome den in the purlieus of Drury Lane. His language was bad, so was his conduct; yet this small scrap of neglected humanity had in him the makings of a useful member of society. There are many such in London, but the Christians of England prefer to help the savages who don't want them to the savages who do. The Chickaboo Indians have existed for centuries without morals, religion, or clothes, and can very well exist for a longer period while the ragged denizens of the most civilized city in the world are being relieved.

Everyone in London knows Drury Lane, that quaint, dirty narrow street leading to the Strand. The very name conjures up the shades of Siddons and Garrick, and the neighbourhood is sacred to the Dramatic Muse. Who has not seen that weather-stained picturesque house from the window of which gossipy old Pepys saw Mistress Nell Gwynne leaning out and watching the milkmaids go down to the Strand Maypole for the pleasant old English dance. But, alas! Nell and the milkmaids with their quaint chronicler have long since passed into the outer darkness--even the Maypole has become but a memory, yet the grim tumble down house still remains in the dirty lane.

'Tis a far cry from Charles to Victoria, and the merry milkmaids with their clinking pails have given place to frowsy old women, battered-looking young ones, and a ragged mixture of men and boys. Not an unpicturesque scene, this dilapidated-looking crowd, slouching over the rugged stones, and an artist would have stopped and admired them, but Dowker was not an artist, so looked not for scenic effect, but for Flip.

Flip was sitting considering at the edge of the pavement with his feet, for the sake of coolness, in the gutter, and his eyes fixed on three dirty pennies lying in his own dirty brown palm.

"'Am," said Flip, deliberating over the expenditure of his fortune. "'Am an' bread, an' a swig o' beer--my h'eye, wot a tuck h'out I'll 'ave. 'Ere," suddenly, as Dowker touched him with his foot, "what the blazes are you kicking? Why I'm blest if 'taint the guv'nor."

He jumped to his feet, and slipped the pennies into the waistband of his trousers, which did duty with him for a pocket.

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