The Plot Thickens.  
In his remarkably eager and somewhat eccentric pursuit of pleasure—that pursuit which is so universal yet so diverse among men, to say nothing about boys—Tommy Splint used to go about town like a jovial lion-cub seeking whom he might terrify!
 
To do him justice, Tommy never had any settled intention of being wicked. His training at the hands of chimney-pot Liz and the gentle Susy had so far affected his arab spirit that he had learned, on the whole, to prefer what he styled upright to dishonourable mischief. For instance, he would not steal, but he had no objection to screen a thief or laugh at his deeds. His natural tenderness of heart prevented his being cruel to dogs or cats, but it did not prevent his ruffling some of the former into furious rage, and terrifying many of the latter into cataleptic fits.
 
One afternoon, having roved about for some time without aim, sometimes howling in at open doors and bolting, frequently heaping banter upon good-natured policemen, occasionally asking of mild old ladies the way to places he had never heard of, or demanding what o’clock it was of people who did not possess watches, and whistling most of the time with irritating intensity—our little hero at last came to the conclusion that felicity was not to be obtained by such courses—not at least, at that time. He was out of sorts, somehow, so he would return to the garden and comfort Susy and the old woman, i.e. find comfort to himself in their society. He went whistling along, therefore, until his steps were suddenly and violently arrested.
 
To account for this we must tell how, about this time, it chanced that a very drunk man of the very lowest London type, as far as appearance went, awoke from a heavy slumber which he had been enjoying under the seat of a compartment in a certain low gin-palace. He was about to stretch himself and give vent to a noisy yawn when the word “Laidlaw” smote his ear. Pale, worn-out, cadaverous, threadbare, inexpressibly mean, the man gently raised his dissolute form on one elbow and listened to two men in a box beside him. Their heads met almost over the spot where his own head rested. The men were Lockhart and Spivin, and the occasion was that on which we have already described them as engaged in plotting, or referring to, the downfall of the man from Scotland.
 
Trumps (for he was the listener), though well practised in the art of eavesdropping, could not gather the gist of the plotters’ discourse. Only this he made out, that, in some way or other, they meant to do, or had done, mischief to the man who had spared and helped, and, above all, had trusted him! It was tantalising to hear so little, though so near, for, from his position under the seat, he could have grasped Mr Lockhart’s ankles. But the plotters were much too knowing to speak in tones that could be easily overheard. Besides, other noisy people were arguing in the neighbouring and opposite compartments, so that the confusion of tongues rendered them, they thought, safe. Even the man under the seat although so very near, would have failed to catch the drift of a single sentence had not the name of Laidlaw sharpened his ears and faculties. One that he did catch, however, was suggestive, viz., “put the 50 pound note in his bag,” or something to that effect.
 
When the two friends rose to depart, Trumps sank noiselessly on the ground like a filthy shadow, but the quick eye of the lawyer caught sight of his leg.
 
Lockhart started, turned aside, and gave Trumps a kick in the ribs. It was a sharp painful kick, but drew from him only a heavy snore. To make quite sure the man of law administered another kick. This caused the recumbent man to growl forth a savage oath which terminated in a snore so very natural that the lawyer fell into the trap, and went off with the contemptuous remark—“Dead drunk!”
 
Trumps, however, was very much the reverse. He was indeed all alive and greatly sobered by his nap as well as by what he had heard. He rose and followed the plotters, but missed them in the crowd outside. In his anxiety to overtake them he ran somewhat violently against Tommy Splint, and thus arrested him, as we have said, in the pursuit of pleasure.
 
“Hallo, Thunderbolt!” exclaimed the boy sternly, as he started back and doubled his fists, “who let you out o’ Noogate?”
 
The thief was about to pass without deigning a reply, when, glancing at the small questioner, he suddenly stopped and held out his hand.
 
“I say, Splint, is it you I’ve run into?”
 
“Well, it’s uncommon like me. Any’ow, not a twin brother, I s’pose it must be myself. But I hain’t got the pleasure o’ your acquaintance as I knows on.”
 
“What! Don’t you remember Trumps?”
 
“No, I don’t remember Trumps, an’, wot’s more, I don’t b’lieve from the look of ’im that any of Trumps’s family or friends wants to remember ’im.”
 
The possibility that the boy might remember Trumps was not so unlikely after all, for, being of a highly social disposition, Tommy was pretty well acquainted with, and known to, nearly all the thieves and pickpockets of the locality. Indeed he would certainly have been one of themselves but for garret-garden influences.
 
“Well, Tommy,” said the thief confidentially, “I remember you, an’ I wants a little conversation with you.”
 
“No, you don’t” returned the boy, retreating; “you wants my wipe, or puss, or ticker, you do—or suthin’ o’ that sort—but you’ve come to the wrong shop, you have.”
 
“But really, Tommy, I’ve got summat to say t............