Yet there is always a recompense in prowling about London, because if you do not find the thing you are looking for, you find something else equally interesting.  My Bow Street friend proved to be a regular magazine of rare and useful information—­historical, archeological and biographical.

A Lunnun Bobby has his clothes cut after a pattern a hundred years old, and he always carries his gloves in his hand—­never wearing them—­because this was a habit of William the Conqueror.

But never mind; he is intelligent, courteous and obliging, and I am perfectly willing that he should wear skirts like a ballet-dancer and a helmet too small, if it is his humor.

My perliceman knew an older orf’cer who was acquainted with Mr. Dickens.  Mr. Dickens ’ad a full perliceman’s suit ’imself, issued to ’im on an order from Scotland Yard, and he used to do patrol duty at night, carrying ‘is bloomin’ gloves in ’is ’and and ’is chinstrap in place.  This was told me by my new-found friend, who volunteered to show me the way to North Gower Street.

It’s only Gower Street now and the houses have been renumbered, so Number Four is a matter of conjecture; but my guide showed me a door where were the marks of a full-grown plate that evidently had long since disappeared.  Some days afterward I found this identical brass plate at an old bookshop in Cheapside.  The plate read:  “Mrs. Dickens’ Establishment.”  The man who kept the place advertised himself as a “Bibliopole.”  He offered to sell me the plate for one pun ten; but I did not purchase, for I knew where I could get its mate with a deal more verdigris—­all for six and eight.

Dickens has recorded that he can not recollect of any pupils coming to the Establishment.  But he remembers when his father was taken, like Mr. Dorrit, to the Debtors’ Prison.  He was lodged in the top story but one, in the very same room where his son afterwards put the Dorrits.  It’s a queer thing to know that a book-writer can imprison folks without a warrant and even kill them and yet go unpunished—­which thought was suggested to me by my philosophic guide.

From this house in Gower Street, Charles used to go daily to the Marshalsea to visit Micawber, who not so many years later was to act as the proud amanuensis of his son.

The next morning after I first met Bobby he was off duty.  I met him by appointment at the Three Jolly Beggars (a place pernicious snug).  He was dressed in a fashionable, light-colored suit, the coat a trifle short, and a high silk hat.  His large, red neckscarf—­set off by his bright, brick-dust complexion—­caused me to mistake him at first for a friend of mine who drives a Holborn bus.

Mr.  ’Awkins (for it was he) greeted me cordially, pulled gently at his neck-whiskers, and, when he addressed me as Me Lud, the barmaid served us with much alacrity and things.

We went first to the church of Saint George; then we found Angel Court leading to Bermondsey, also Marshalsea Place.  Here is the site of the prison, where the crowded ghosts of misery still hover; but small trace could we find of the prison itself, neither did we see the ghosts.  We, however, saw a very pretty barmaid at the public in Angel Court.  I think she is still prettier than the one to whom Bobby introduced me at the Sign of the Meat-Axe, which is saying a good deal.  Angel Court is rightly named.