_Mike_ (_confidentially_). "FAITH, BUT THEY'RE A DEAD FAILURE, SORR.
WHY, THREE WEEKS I'VE BEEN ON THIM TANKS AND NIVER WAN HAS RIZ OFF THE
GROUND YET."]

* * * * *

FURTHER REMINISCENCES.

(_WITH ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO MR. GEORGE R. SIMS_).

We come now to the beginning of the sixties. I well remember, early in
the summer of one of them, Gentleman Dick--we called him this because
his father had been a tramp, and, although he scarcely justified the
maternal strain (his mother had been a washerwoman), he was certainly
to all appearances his father's son--rushing in to tell me that
"Blue Satin," the prize bull bitch belonging to the proprietor of
that well-known tavern--public-houses were scarcely known in those
days--"The Seven Sisters," had given birth to a son.

This was an opportunity too good to be missed, and in spite of the
bitter cold I hurried off with Gentleman Dick, who already had
acquired no small reputation for his dexterity in hanging on to the
backs of cabs, and ultimately secured "Albert the Good." If I had to
christen a pup now I should naturally call him "Jellicoe the Brave."
"Albert the Good" scarcely lived up to his name and eventually I had
to get rid of him. He bit a piece out of a constable's leg. Sir J----
B----, the presiding magistrate at Bow Street, was most charming about
it however, and gave me a seat on the bench during the constable's
evidence.