A feeling of pity entered Sir Richard’s soul as he looked on the poorly clothed forlorn creature. He little knew what rejoicing there was in her heart just then—so deceptive are appearances at times! He went towards her with an intention of some sort, when a very tall policeman turned the corner, and approached.
“Why, Giles Scott!” exclaimed the knight, holding out his hand, which Giles shook respectfully, “you seem to be very far away from your beat to-night.”
“No, sir, not very far, for this is my beat, now. I have exchanged into the city, for reasons that I need not mention.”
At this point a belated and half-tipsy man passed with his donkey-cart full of unsold vegetables and rubbish.
“Hallo! you big blue-coat-boy,” he cried politely to Giles, “wot d’ye call that?”
Giles had caught sight of “that” at the same moment, and darted across the street.
“Why, it’s fire!” he shouted. “Run, young fellow, you know the fire-station!”
“I know it,” shouted the donkey-man, sobered in an instant, as he jumped off his cart, left it standing, dashed round the corner, and disappeared, while Number 666 beat a thundering tattoo on Samuel Twitter’s front door.