Seated by the fire-side of Joe Dashwood’s new abode—for the old one, although not quite “burnt out,” was uninhabitable—Bob Clazie chatted and smoked his pipe contentedly. At the conclusion of a remark, he looked up in Mrs Dashwood’s puzzled face, and said, “That’s ’ow it is, d’ye see?”  
“No, I don’t see,” replied Mary, with a smile.
 
“No? well, now, that is koorious. W’y, it’s as plain as the nose on my face. See here. As the law now stands, there is no public authority to inwestigate the cause o’ fires in London; well, wot’s the consikence, w’y, that there are regular gangs of scoundrels who make it their business to arrange fires for their own adwantage.”
 
“Now, that’s just what I don’t understand,” said Mary, knitting her pretty brows; “what advantage can it be to any one to set fire to a house, except to pick-pockets who may get a chance of doing business in the crowd?”
 
“Well, that of itself is enough to endooce some blackguards to raise a fire, and likewise to get the shillin’ for bringin’ the first noose to the station; which, by the way, was the chief okipation of that willain Phil Sparks, I’m pretty sure. But here’s ’ow it is. The swindlers I speak of, go an’ take ’ouses—the further from fire-stations the better. Then they furnishes the ’ouses, arter which they insures ’em. In the course of a short time they removes most of the furniture in a quiet way, and then set the ’ouses alight, themselves escapin’, p’r’aps, in nothin’ but their night clothes. So, you see, they gits the insurance, which more than pays for all the furniture they had bought, besides which they ’ave a good deal of the furniture itself to sell or do wot they please with. That’s one way in which fires are raised,—ain’t it Joe?”
 
Joe, who sat smoking in silence on the other side of the fire, nodded, and, turning his head round, advised Fred Crashington and little May to make “less row.”
 
“But we can’t put it out widout a row!” remonstrated the Rosebud.
 
“What! have you found a fire in this cupboard, as well as in the one o’ the old house?” asked Joe, with a laugh.
 
“Iss, iss; an’ it’s a far wuss fire than the last one!”
 
“That’s your sort!” cried Fred; “now then, May, don’t stand jawin’ there, but down with number two. Look alive!”
 
“Ha! chips o’ the old blocks, I see,” said Bob Clazie, with a grin. “Well, as I was sayin’, there’s another class o’ men, not so bad as the first, but bad enough, who are indooced to go in for this crime of fire-raisin’—arson they calls it, but why so is beyond me to diskiver. A needy tradesman, for instance, when at his wits’-end for money, can’t help thinkin’ that a lucky spark would put him all right.”
 
“But how could the burning of his goods put him all right?” demanded Mary.
 
“W’y, ’e don’t want goods, you know, ’e wants to sell ’is goods an’ so git money; but nobody will buy, so ’e can’t sell, nor git money, yet money must be ’ad, for creditors won’t wait. Wot then? All the goods are insured against fire. Well, make a bonfire of ’em, redoose ’em all to hashes, an’ of coorse the insurance companies is bound to pay up, so ’e gits rid of the goods, gits a lot o’ ready money in ’and, pays off ’is creditors, and p’r’aps starts fresh in a noo business! Now, a public officer to inwestigate such matters would mend things to some extent, though ’e mightn’t exactly cure ’em. Some time ago the Yankees, I’m told, appointed a officer they called a fire-marshal in some of their cities, and it’s said that the consikence was a sudden an’ extraor’nary increase in the conwictions for arson, followed by a remarkable decrease in the number o’ fires! They’ve got some-thin’ o’ the same sort in France, an’ over all the chief towns o’ Europe, I b’lieve, but we don’t need no such precautions in London. We’re rich, you know, an’ can afford to let scamps burn right an’ left. It ain’t worth our while to try to redooce the number of our fires. We’ve already got an average of about five fires every twenty-four hours in London. Why should we try to make ’em less, w’en they furnishes ’ealthy work to such fine fellows as Joe and me and the police—not to mention the fun afforded to crossin’-sweepers and other little boys, whose chief enjoyment in life would be gone if there was no fires.”
 
“If I had the making of the laws,” exclaimed Mary, flushing with indignation as she thought of her own recent risks and losses in consequence of fire-raising, “I’d have every man that set light to his house hanged!”
 
“Ah; an’ if ’e could also be draw’d and quartered,” added Bob, “and ’ave the bits stuck on the weathercocks of Saint Paul’s, or atop of Temple Bar, it would serve ’im right.”
 
“We must have you into Parliament some day, Molly,” said Joe, with a smile. “Women are tryin’ hard, I believe, to get the right to vote for members; w’y not go the whole hog and vote themselves in?”
 
“They’d make splendid firemen too,” said Clazie, “at least if they were only half as vigorous as your little May. By the way, Joe,” continued Bob, “has Sparks been took yet?”
 
“Not yet. It is rumoured that the crossin’-sweeper who chased him down so smartly, suddenly favoured his escape at last, from some unaccountable cause or other. I suppose that Sparks bribed him.”
 
“You’re sure it was Sparks, are you?” inquired Bob.
 
“Quite sure. It is true I only saw his confederate, but one of the men who had often seen Sparks in company with Crashington, his brother-in-law, knew him at once and saw him run off, with the boys after him. He’s a bad lot, but I hope he’ll escape for poor Mrs Crashington’s sake.”
 
“And I hope he won’t escape, for poor Martha Reading’s sake!” said Mary with much decision of tone.
 
“That’s his sweet-’eart—a friend of Molly’s!” said Joe to Bob in explanation.
 
At this point in the conversation, Master Fred Crashington, in his frantic efforts to reach an elevated part of the cupboard, fell backwards, drawing a shelf and all its contents on the top of himself and May. Neither of them was hurt, though both were much frightened.
 
“I think that must have put the fire out at last,” said Joe, with a laugh, as he took the panting rosebud on his knee and smoothed her soft little head. “We’ll sit quiet now and have a chat.”
 
A knock at the outer door here called Mrs Dashwood from the room.
 
“Fire!” exclaimed May, holding up her finger and listening with eager expectation.
 
“No, little woman,” said Joe, “they would ring loud if it was fire.”
 
Meanwhile Mrs Dashwood opened the door and found herself confronted by a boy, with his hands in his pockets and his cap thrown in a reckless way half on the side and half on the back of his head.
 
“Oh, I suppose you are the boy Herring, sent here by Miss Reading,” said Mrs Dashwood.
 
“Well, as to that, ma’am, you must be guided by taste. I’ve ’eard of men of my years an’ standin’ bein’ styled ’obble-de-’oys. My name, likewise, is open to question. Some of my friends calls me ’Erring—others of ’em, Raw ’Erring—others, again, the Bloater. But I’m in no wise partikler, I did come from Miss Reading to ’ave an interview with Mrs Dashwood—whom—I presoom—”
 
Here the Bloater laid his hand on his heart and made a courtly bow.
 
Mrs Dashwood laughed, and said, “come in, boy.”
 
“I have a pal, ma’am—a chum—a—in fact a friend—may I—”
 
Without finishing his sentence or waiting for a reply, the Bloater gave a sharp whistle, and Little Jim stood by his side as if by magical influence, looking the embodiment of united innocence and impudence.
 
“Come in, both of you, and make haste,” said Mary, ushering them into a small empty room. “Now, boy—”
 
“Bloater, ma’am, if you ’ave no objection.”
 
“Well, Bloater, our communication with each other must be brief and to the point, because—”
 
“Yes, ma’am—sharp and short,” interrupted the Bloater—“reasons not required.”
 
Smiling in spite of herself, Mrs Dashwood said—
 
“You know Mr Sparks, and can—can—in short, give him into the hands of justice.”
 
“If I knowed w’ere justice was,” said the Bloater, sternly, “p’raps I might give Mr Sparks into ’is ’ands, but I don’t. It’s my opinion that justice ain’t finished yet. They’ve made ’is ’ands no doubt—and pretty strong ones they are too—but they ’aven’t give ’im brains yet. ’Ows’ever, to make a long story short, ’as ’Amlet said to ’is father’s ghost, w’ich was prince of Timbuctoo, I do know Mr Sparks, and I can give ’im into the ’ands of the p’lice—wot then?”
 
“Do it!” said Mrs Dashwood, with sudden intensity of feeling and manner, “Do it, boy—” (“Bloater,” murmured the lad), “do it, Bloater. Oh! you have no idea what a blessing it would be to—to—to—a poor, dear girl who is mad—infatuated and, and—then, he is such a scoundrel; such a fire-raiser, deceiver, villain—”
 
“You don’t appear to like ’im yourself,” remarked the Bloater.
 
He said this so quietly and with an air of calmness which contrasted so strongly with Mrs Dashwood’s excitement, that Little Jim gave vent to an irresistible “sk” and blew his nose violently to distract attention from it.
 
“Will you not consent to give up a thorough scoundrel, who every one condemns?” demanded Mrs Dashwood, with sudden indignation.
 
“Well, that depends—”
 
“Bloater,” said Mary, with increasing earnestness, “I cannot bribe you—I have not the means even if I had the will; but I would not if I could. I scorn bribery. If you will not aid me for the sake of a poor, helpless, infatuated girl, who is on the brink of ruin—”
 
“Missis Dashwood,” said the Bloater, with a look of serio-comic dignity, “I scorns bribery as much as you does. ‘No bribery, no c’rupt’ons, no Popery,’ them’s my mottoes—besides a few more that there’s no occasion to mention. W’ether or not I gives ’im up depends on circumstances. Now, I s’pose you want’s ’im took an’ bagged, ’cause ’e ain’t fit for your friend Martha Reading—we’ll drop the ‘Miss’ if you please. Well, wot I want to know is, does Martha think as you does?”
 
“Of course not, boy. No doubt she knows that he is an unworthy scoundrel, but she can’t prevail on herself to forsake him; so, you see, I want to help her a little.”
 
“Ah, I see—yes—I see. Well, missis, I’ll take it into consideration. Come along, Jim.”
 
Without waiting for a reply, the Bloater quitted the house abruptly, followed by his friend. He walked very fast towards the City—so fast that Jim was compelled to trot—and was unusually silent. He went straight to the abode of Martha Reading, and found her sewing and weeping.
 
“Ha! he’s bin with you, I see,” said the Bloater. “Did ’e ask you to let ’im ’ide ’ere?”
 
“Ye–es;” said Martha, hesitating; “but I refused to do it. God knows how willing—how willing—I would be to shelter and save him if I could!”
 
“Would you shelter a guilty man?” demanded the Bloater, sternly.
 
“I don’t know that he is guilty,” said Martha, evasively. “But, tell me, what did Mrs Dashwood want with you?”
 
“That’s a private matter,” said the Bloater, frowning. “You can’t turn me off the scent like that. I ask you, ain’t it right to ’and a guilty man over to justice?”
 
“It is,” replied Martha, wiping her eyes, “but it is also right to temper justice with mercy.”
 
“I say, that’s drawin’ it rather fine, ain’t it?” said the Bloater, screwing up one eyebrow and turning towards Little Jim; but that small youth was so touched with the poor girl’s sorrow and so attracted by her countenance, that he had quite forgotten his patron for the moment. Going towards her, he laid his dirty little hand on her knee, and looked up in her face.
 
“God bless you, dear boy,” she said, patting him on the head, “you are the first that has given me a look of sympathy for many—”
 
She broke down suddenly, burst into a flood of tears, and, seizing the child in her arms, absolutely hugged him!
 
“Hallo! hallo!” cried the Bloater, when Little Jim was released. “I say, you know, come, this sort o’ thing will never do. W’y, its houtrageous. Come along with you.”
 
Saying which he seized Little Jim by the collar, dragged him out into the street, and hurried him along. Presently he released him, but without slackening his pace, and said, “Now, Jim, you an’ I shall go and pay another wisit.”
 
They traversed several small streets, which seemed to be influenced by a tendency to gravitate towards the Thames; while the river, as if in sympathy, appeared to meet them more than half way in the shape of mud. As they proceeded, huge warehouses frowned above, having doors high up on their blank faces where windows ought to have been, with no steps leading thereto, but in some cases with huge block tackles pendent therefrom, suggestive of the idea that the owners were wont to drop the enormous hooks and fish for passers-by. These streets naturally became more nautical in some respects as they neared the river. Old bits of timber lay here and there among old cordage in little yards, where the owners appeared to deal in small-coal and miscellaneous filth. Elsewhere, worn-out anchors held tenaciously to the mud, as if afraid of being again pressed into service and carried off to sea. Everything was cold, dismal, dreary, disreputable; and here, in the dirtiest corner of the smallest possible yard, the Bloater found a half-concealed door that might have been the portal to a dog-kennel or pig-sty. Opening it he entered, and Little Jim followed.
 
The aspect of things inside was not attractive. Dirt, damp, and rubbish prevailed in the room, which was just big enough to permit of a tall man lying down, but not high enough to admit of his standing up. An uncommonly small four-post bed almost filled the apartment, at the foot of which, on the floor and half-reclining against one of the posts, lay Phil Sparks, either dead-drunk or asleep, or both.
 
The Bloater glanced back at Little Jim with a look of satisfaction, and held up his finger to enjoin silence. Peering round the room, which was lighted by a farthing candle stuck in the neck of a pint bottle, he observed a piece of rope lying among some rubbish.
 
“Ha! this’ll do,” he whispered, as he took it up, and, with wonderful rapidity, made a loop on it.
 
“Now, Jim, you be ready to cut and run if he should waken before I ’ave ’im fast. Don’t mind me; I’ll look arter myself. An’ wotever you do, don’t holler for the bobbies. Mind that, else I’ll strangle you.”
 
With this advice and caution, the Bloater advanced toward the recumbent man, and passed the rope softly round his body, including his arms and the bedpost in the coil. Drawing it suddenly tight, he hastily made it fast; but there was no occasion for haste, for the sleep of the man was so profound that the action did not awake him.
 
“Hall right—fus’ rate,” said the Bloater aloud, as he wound the rope round and round Sparks, so as to make him doubly secure. “Nothin’ could be better. Now, Jim, I’m goin’ for to preach a sermon to-night—a sort o’ discoorse. You never heard me preach, did you?”
 
Little Jim, who, despite his love of mischief, was somewhat alarmed at the strange proceedings of his friend and patron, looked at him with a mingled expression of fear and glee, and shook his head.
 
“Well, you shall ’ear. Moreover, I ’ope that you’ll profit by wot you ’ears.”
 
Saying this, he advanced his hand towards the sleeping man’s face, and, causing his thumb to act as a trigger to his middle finger, gave him such a flip on the point of his nose, that he awoke with a tremendous roar. Suddenly he became pale as death—supposing, no doubt, that he had betrayed himself—and glanced towards the door with a bewildered stare.
 
“Oh, you needn’t alarm yourself,” said the Bloater, placing a stool in front of his victim, and sitting down thereon, with a hand on each knee, “it ain’t the bobbies. If you keep quiet, there’s no fear of them in this neighbourhood. I can call ’em w’en I wants ’em. There’s nobody but me and Little Jim ’ere—your friends, you know.”
 
Becoming suddenly convinced of the truth of this, Phil Sparks, who was very drunk, made so desperate an effort to free himself that he nearly overturned the bed.
 
“Oh, you are anxious to see the bobbies, are you? Well, go an’ call ’em in, Jim.”
 
Jim rose to obey, and the man became instantly quiet.
 
“Ho! you’re reasonable now, are you? That’s well. You needn’t call ’em in yet, Jim. We’ll grant ’im a reprieve. Fetch that stool, an’ sit down beside me—there. Now, Mr Sparks, alias Blazes, no doubt you’re a precious specimen of hinnocent ’unmanity, ain’t you?”
 
Sparks made no reply, but scowled at the boy with a look of deadly hatred.
 
“Well, upon my word,” resumed the Bloater, with a smile, “if I kep’ a menagerie, I’d offer you five ’undred a year to represent a Tasmanian devil. But look ’ere, now, I’ve no time to waste with you; I come ’ere to give you a bit of my mind. You’re a fire-raiser, you are. Ah! you may well wince an’ grow w’ite. You’d grow w’iter still, with a rope round your neck, if you wos left to my tender mercies, you w’ite livered villain! for I knows you; I’ve watched you; I’ve found you hout; an’ I’ve only got to ’old up my little finger to cut your pretty little career prematoorly short. You don’t seem to like that? No, I didn’t expect you would. This young man, whose ’art is big, if ’is body’s small, knows as much about you as I do. Two witnesses, you see; but you ain’t left to our tender mercies; and if you wants to know who delivered you from us, and from the maginstrates, and Jack Ketch, alias Calcraft, I replies, Martha Reading. Ha! you look surprised. Quite nat’ral. You’ve deserved very different treatment from that young ooman, an’ didn’t expect that she’d return good for evil, I s’pose. That’s because you don’t know ’er; you don’t understand ’er, you miserable lump of selfish stoopidity. ’Ows’ever, as I said before, I ain’t a-goin’ to waste no more time with you. But let me, before biddin’ you adoo, give you a caution. Remember, that I’ve got my eye on you. Just one word more. W’en you thinks of me, don’t think of one as ’as got any tender mercies, for I ain’t got none; not a scrap of ’em, nor nothin’ of the sort. W’en you wants to know the true cause of your bein’ let off, just think of two words—Martha Reading! She knows nothin’ o’ wot I’m doin’, nevertheless, she’s done it! Let ’er name ring in your ears, an’ thunder in your brain, and burn in your ’art, till it consooms your witals or your willany! Now, Jim,” concluded the Bloater, rising and opening a large clasp-knife, “you go to the door, open it wide, an’ stan’ by to cut, and run. This gen’lm’n ain’t to be trusted w’en free. Are you ready?”
 
“Hall ready,” replied Jim.
 
The Bloater cut the cord that bound Phil Sparks, and darted from the room. Before the man could disentangle himself from its coils, the boys were safe from pursuit, quietly wending their way through the crowded thoroughfares of the great city.