Poor Tom Drift! How gladly would I have returned to him, even to be neglected and ill-used, if only I might have the opportunity once again of fulfilling that charge put upon me by my first master, and which yet ever rang in my ears,-- "Be good to Tom Drift." But it was not to be yet.

The man walked rapidly on down a street parallel with Grime Street, at the farthest corner of which stood a small private house.
Here he knocked.
The occupant of the house evidently knew and expected him, for he at once admitted him, and led the way upstairs into a private parlour.
Here the thieves' broker emptied the contents of his bag, laying the articles one by one on the table.
The man of the house looked on in an unconcerned way while this was taking place, picking up now one, now another of the objects, and examining them superficially.

When the bag was empty, and the whole of the ill-gotten booty displayed, he remarked, "Not so much this time, Bill." "No; trade's bad, sir," replied he who owned the bag.
"Well, I'll send the most of 'em down to the country to-day," resumed the master of the house.
"When shall I call, sir ?" inquired Stumpy's friend.
"Monday.

But look here, Bill!" said the other, taking me up, "it's no use leaving this; I shall be able to manage the gold ones, but this is no good." I had long lost the pride which in former days would have made me resent such a remark, and patiently waited for the result.
Stumpy's friend took me back.

"Well," he said, "if you can't, you can't.