Presently there was a stir, for Brighton Bill had landed a tremendous blow on the cheek of Owen Swift, and while we were applauding, as is the custom at prize-fights and public dinners, a cunning pickpocket standing immediately behind John pushed the tall chimney-pot hat tightly down over the boy’s eyes.

His little hands, which had been in his pockets, went up in a moment to raise his hat, so that he might see the world, the big object he had come to see; and immediately in went two other hands, and out came the savings of John’s life—­two precious half-crowns, which he had shown to me with great pride that very morning!  When he saw the world again the rogue had disappeared.

The famous place for these pugilistic encounters, or one of the famous places, was a spot called Noon’s Folly, which was within a very few miles of Royston, where the counties of Cambridge, Suffolk, Essex, and Hertfordshire meet, or most of them.  That was the scene of many a stiff encounter; and although, of course, there were both magisterial and police interference when the knowledge reached them that a fight was about to take place within their particular jurisdiction, by some singular misadventure the knowledge never reached them until their worships were returning from the battle.  All was over before any official communication was made.

* * * * *

I was entered of the Middle Temple on April 16, 1839, and remained with Mr. Butt until I had kept sufficient terms to qualify me to take out a licence to plead on my own account, which I did at the earliest possible date.  This was a great step in my career, although, of course, the licence did not enable me to plead in court, as I was not called to the Bar.

If work came I should now be in a fair way to attain independence.  But the prospect was by no means flattering; it was, in fact, all but hopeless while the position of a special pleader was not my ambition.  The lookout, in fact, was anything but encouraging from the fifth floor of No. 3 Elm Court—­I mean prospectively.  It was a region not inaccessible, of course, but it looked on to a landscape of chimney-pots, not one of which was likely to attract attorneys; it was cheap and lonely, dull and miserable—­a melancholy altitude beyond the world and its companionship.  Had I been of a melancholy disposition I might have gone mad, for hope surely never came to a fifth floor.  But there I sat day by day, week by week, and month by month, waiting for the knock that never came, hoping for the business that might never come.