gets this in.) “Do?” says BOSCH, quite indignantly, “he nefer do nodings!” BOSCH takes me into the Fishmarket, when he directs my attention to a couple of very sooty live storks, who are pecking about at the refuse.  “Dose birts are shtorks; hier dey vas oblige to keep alvays two shtorks for de arms of de Haag.  Ven de yong shtorks porn, de old vons vas kill.” Sandford shocked—­Merton sceptical.  “Keel dem?  Oh, yass, do anytings mit dem ven dey vas old,” says BOSCH, and adds:—­“Ve haf de breference mit de shtorks, eh?” What is he driving at?  “Yass—­ven ve vas old, ve vas nod kill.”  This reminds BOSCH—­Barlow-like—­of an anecdote.  “Dere vas a vrent to me,” he begins, “he com and say to me, ’BOSCH, I am god so shtout and my bark is so dick, I can go no more on my lacks—­vat vas I do?’ To him I say, ’Wol, I dell you vat I do mit you—­I dake you at de booshair to be cot op; I tink you vas make vary goot shdeak-meat!’” Wonder whether this is a typical sample of BOSCH’s badinage.  “What did he say to that, BOSCH?” “Oh, he vas vair moch loff, a-course!” says BOSCH, with the natural complacency of a successful humorist.

[Illustration:  “Some story of a scandalous but infinitely humorous nature.”]

We go into the Old Prison, and see some horrible implements of torture, which seem to exhilarate BOSCH.  “Lokeer!” he says, “Dis vas a pinition” (BOSCH for “punishment”) “mit a can.  Dey lie de man down and vasten his foots, and efery dime he was shdrook mit de can, he jomp op and hit his vorehaid....  Hier dey lie down de beoples on de back, and pull dis shdring queeck, and all dese tings go roundt, and preak deir bones.  Ven de pinition vas feenish you vas det.”  He shows where the Water-torture was practised.  “Nottice ’ow de vater vas vork a ’ole in de tile,” he chuckles.  “I tink de tile vas vary hardt det, eh?” Then he points out a pole with a spiked prong.  “Tief-catcher—­put’em in de tief’s nack—­and ged ’im!” Before a grim-looking cauldron he halts appreciatively.  “You know vat dat vas for?” he says.  “Dat vas for de blode-foots; put ’em in dere, yass, and light de vire onderneat.”  No idea what “blode-foots” may be, but from the relish in BOSCH’s tone, evidently something very unpleasant, so don’t press him for explanations.  We go upstairs, and see some dark and very mouldy dungeons, which BOSCH is most anxious that I should enter.  Make him go in first, for the surroundings seem to have excited his sense of the humorous to such a degree, that he might be unable to resist locking me in, and leaving me, if I gave him a chance.