A Night of Adventures.  
According to arrangement, David Laidlaw was taken the following evening by his landlord, Mr Spivin, to see one of the low lodging-houses of London.
 
Our adventurous Scot had often read and heard that some of the low quarters of London were dangerous for respectable men to enter without the escort of the police, but his natural courage and his thorough confidence in the strength of his bulky frame inclined him to smile at the idea of danger. Nevertheless, by the advice of his new friend the landlord, he left his watch and money, with the exception of a few coppers, behind him—carefully stowed under the pillow of his bed in his shoulder-bag. For further security the door of his room was locked and the key lung on a nail in an out-of-the-way corner, known only, as Mr Spivin pointed out, to “their two selves.”
 
“But hoo dis it happen, Mr Speevin,” asked David, as they walked along the streets together, “that ye can gang safely amang the thieves withoot a polisman t’ proteck ye?”
 
“Oh, as to that,” replied the jolly landlord, “I’m connected with a religious society which sends agents down among them poor houtcasts to convert ’em. They hall knows me, bless you. But I ain’t a-goin’ with you myself. You see, I’m a very busy man, and engagements which I ’ad forgotten prevents me, but I’ve made an arrangement with one o’ the converted thieves to take you to a few of the worst places in London. Of course he can pass you hevery where as one of his friends.”
 
To this David made no reply, save with a slight “Humph!” as he looked earnestly at his companion. But Mr Spivin wore an expression of seraphic candour.
 
“Here he is,” added the landlord, as they turned a corner and drew near to a man in mean attire, who seemed to be waiting for some one. “He’s rather disreputable to look at, only just been converted, an’ not ’avin’ ’ad the chance yet to better himself.—But—hallo!—you seem to know him.”
 
The last exclamation and remark were called forth by the look of surprise on Laidlaw’s face, and the air almost of alarm on that of the mean-looking man—alarm which was by no means unnatural, seeing that he was none other than the fellow who had attempted to rob our Scotsman the previous night.
 
David, however, was quick to recover himself. “Know him!” he cried, with a hearty laugh, “ay, I ken him weel. I lent him a helpin’ haund last nicht, no’ far frae here.”
 
“Surely he was not beggin’?” exclaimed Mr Spivin in tones of virtuous reproof, “for a noo convert to go a-beggin’, you know, would be houtrageous!”
 
“Na, na,” answered David, with a quiet and somewhat cynical smile, “he wasna beggin’, puir lad, but I took peety on ’im, an’ gee’d ’im some bawbees. So this is yer new convert, is he? an’ he’s to be my guide? He’ll do. He’ll do. Sae I’ll bid ye guid-nicht, Mr Speevin.”
 
As the Scot held out his hand in a very decided manner the landlord was obliged to depart without further enlightenment, after cautioning the “converted” thief to take good care of his friend.
 
When he was gone the Scotsman and the ex-convict stood looking silently at each other, the first with an earnest yet half-sarcastic smile, the other with a mingled expression of reckless amusement, in which, however, there was a trace of anxiety.
 
“Weel noo,” said the former, “aren’t ye an oot-an’-oot blagyird?”
 
“If you mean by that an out-and-out blackguard,” answered the thief, “you’re not far wrong.”
 
“Ye’re honest the noo, ony way,” remarked the Scot, with a nod. “Noo, my man, look ye here. Ye are nae mair convertit than yer freen’ Speevin is, though I took him for a rale honest man at first. But bein’ a blagyird, as ye admit, I’m wullin’ t’ hire ye in that capacity for the nicht. Noo, what I want is t’ see low life in Lun’on, an’ if ye’ll tak’ me to what they may ca’ the warst haunts o’ vice, I’ll mak’ it worth yer while—an’ I’ve got mair siller than ye think for, maybe.”
 
A stern frown settled on the thief’s face as David spoke.
 
“I suppose,” he said, “that you want me to show you the misery and destitootion among the poor of London, that you may return to your ’ome in the North and boast that you ’ave ‘done the slums!’”
 
“Na—na, ye’re quite mista’en, man,” returned David quickly; “but I want t’ see for mysel’ what I’ve heard sae muckle aboot—to see if it’s a’ true, for I’m wae—I’m” (correcting himself) “sorry—for the puir craturs, an’ wud fain help some o’ them if I could. Noo, freen’,” he continued, laying his huge hand gently on the man’s shoulder, “if ye want to earn something, an’ll tak’ me t’ where I want t’ gang—guid. If no’—I’ll bid ye guid-nicht.”
 
“Do you know,” said the man, with a furtive glance at David’s kindly face, “the risk you run from the men who live in such places if you go alone and unprotected?”
 
“I ken the risk they run if they daur t’ meddle wi’ me! Besides, I’ll be naether alane nor unproteckit if I’ve you wi’ me, for I can trust ye!”
 
A peculiar smile played for a moment on the haggard features of the thief.
 
“Scotchman,” he said, “whatever your name may be, I—”
 
“My name is David Laidlaw, an’ I’ve nae cause t’ be ashamed o’t.”
 
“Well, Mr Laidlaw,” returned the thief, in vastly improved language and tone, “I’m indebted to you for a good supper and a warm bed last night. Besides, yours is the first friendly touch or kind voice that has greeted me since I was discharged, and you’ve said you can trust me! So I’ll do my best for you even though you should not give me a penny. But remember, you will go among a rough lot whom I have but little power to control.”
 
“Hoots! c’way, man, an’ dinna waste time haverin’.”
 
Saying this, he grasped his guide by the arm in a friendly way and walked off, much to the surprise of a policeman with an aquiline nose, who turned his bull’s-eye full on them as they passed, and then went on his way, shaking his head sagaciously.
 
As the ill-assorted pair advanced, the streets they traversed seemed to grow narrower and dirtier. The inhabitants partook of the character of their surroundings, and it struck our Scotsman that, as ordinary shops became fewer and meaner, grog-shops became more numerous and self-assertive. From out of these dens of debauchery there issued loud cries and curses and ribald songs, and occasionally one or two of the wretched revellers, male or female, were thrust out, that they might finish off a quarrel with a fight in the street, or because they insisted on having more drink without having the means to pay for it.
 
At one particular point a woman “in unwomanly rags” was seen leaning up against a lamp-post with an idiotical expression on her bloated face, making an impassioned speech to some imaginary person at her elbow. The speech came to an abrupt end when, losing her balance, she fell to the ground, and lay there in drunken contentment.
 
At the same moment the attention of our explorer was drawn to a riot close at hand, occasioned by two men engaged in a fierce encounter. They were loudly cheered and backed by their friends, until all were scattered by two powerful constables, who swooped suddenly on the scene and captured one of the combatants, while the other almost overturned David as he ran against him in passing, and escaped.
 
“Come down here,” said the thief, turning sharp to the left and passing under a low archway.
 
It led to a narrow alley, which seemed to terminate in total darkness. Even Laidlaw’s stout heart beat somewhat faster as he entered it, but he did not hesitate.
 
At the end of the passage a dim light appeared. It was thrown by a very dirty lamp, and disclosed a small court of unutterable meanness and inconceivable smells. One or two men had brushed past them, and David observed that his guide accosted these in a language, or slang, which he did not understand.
 
“I’ve got a friend in here,” said his guide, opening a door and disclosing an extremely dirty room of about ten feet square. A woman with her back towards the door was busy at a wash-tub. Ragged clothes were drying on a clothes-line. A shattered bed, on which lay a bundle of straw and a torn blanket, stood in one corner; a rickety table in another. Water and soapsuds blotched the broken floor, amongst which played two little boys, absolutely naked.
 
“That’s a woman that tries to keep respectable,” whispered the thief, with something like a bitter laugh. “Hallo, Molly! here’s a gen’lem’n as wants to bid ’ee good-night.”
 
Molly raised herself, cleared the soapsuds from her thin arms, and turned a haggard but not dissipated face towards her visitor, who was almost choked, not only by the smell of the place, but by an uncontrollable gush of pity.
 
“My puir wumin!” he exclaimed, hastily thrusting his ever-ready hand into his pocket, “I didna mean t’ come in on ’ee unawears. Hae, ye’ll no’ objec’ to a wheen bawbees?”
 
He put all the coppers he possessed into the woman’s hand and hurried out of the room.
 
“Weel, weel,” muttered David, as they continued their walk through the miserable region, “I’ve gane an’ gie’d her a’ the siller I had i’ my pouch. Pair thing! She’ll need it, but I’ve naething left for onybody else!”
 
“It’s just as well, for there’s nothing left now for any one to steal,” said his companion.
 
“Whar are ’ee gaun noo?” asked Laidlaw.
 
The question put was not answered, for his guide, bidding him wait a minute, turned into a doorway and engaged in a low-toned conversation with a man. Returning to his friend with an air of indecision about him, the thief was on the point of speaking when a small party of men and women—evidently of the better classes—came round the corner and approached.
 
“Oho!” exclaimed the thief, drawing his companion into the shade of the opposite doorway, “we’re in luck. You see, this is what they call a low lodging-house, and the door-keeper thought that, respectable as you are in dress and looks, it might not be wise to take you in. But we’ll go in now at the tail o’ this lot, and nobody will take notice of you. Only follow close to me.”
 
Two of the “lot” who approached appeared to be respectably-dressed young men, carrying something like a large box between them. There were five altogether in the party, two of whom seemed to be plainly-dressed ladies.
 
They entered the house at once with a quiet “good-night” to the door-keeper, and were followed by the thief and David. Entering a very large irregularly-formed room, they proceeded to the upper end, where a huge coal fire blazed. The room was crowded with men and boys of varied appearance and character. From every rank in society they had gravitated—but all were stamped with the same brand—destitution! They were not, however, destitute of lungs, as the babel of sounds proved—nor of tobacco, as the clouds of smoke demonstrated.
 
Little notice was taken of the visitors. They were well known in that haunt of crime and woe. Angels of mercy they were, who, after the labours of each day, gave their spare time to the work of preaching salvation in Jesus to lost souls. To the surprise of Laidlaw, the box before referred to became a harmonium when opened up, and soon the harmony of praise to God ascended from the reeking den. Then followed prayer—brief and to the point—after which an earnest appeal was made to the sorrowing, the suffering, and the criminal to come and find deliverance and rest in the Saviour.
 
We may not dwell on this. Some listened carelessly, some earnestly, others not at all.
 
“Come now,” whispered the thief to his friend, towards the close, “they’ll have spotted you, and will want to have a talk. We’ve no time for that. Follow me.”
 
David, who had been deeply interested, also wanted to have a talk with these servants of the King of kings, but his guide being already halfway down the room he was constrained to follow. Another moment and they were in the street.