“I come before you, ladies and gentlemen, not for vulgar gain—­or, as I might say—­kudos, which is Eyetalian for the same—­not to put my hands into your pockets and rifle ’em of your honestly earned money; no, I come before you for the good of each one of you, for the easing of suffering mankind—­as I might say—­the ha-melioration of stricken humanity.  In a word, I am here to introduce to you what I call my Elixir Anthropos—­Anthropos, ladies and gentlemen, is an old and very ancient Egyptian word meaning man—­or woman, for that matter,” etc.

During this exordium I had noticed a venerable man in a fine blue surtout and a wide-brimmed hat, who sat upon the shaft of a cart and puffed slowly at a great pipe.  And as he puffed, he listened intently to the quack-salver’s address, and from time to time his eyes would twinkle and his lips curve in an ironic smile.  The cart, upon the shaft of which he sat, stood close to a very small, dirty, and disreputable-looking tent, towards which the old gentleman’s back was turned.  Now, as I watched, I saw the point of a knife gleam through the dirty canvas, which, vanishing, gave place to a hand protruded through the slit thus made—­a very large hand with bony knuckles, and long fingers, upon one of which was a battered ring.  For an instant the hand hovered undecidedly, then darted forward—­the long skirts of the old gentleman’s coat hardly stirred, yet, even as I watched, I saw the hand vanish with a fat purse in its clutches.

Skirting the tent, I came round to the opening, and stooping, peered cautiously inside.  There, sure enough, was my pickpocket gazing intently into the open purse, and chuckling as he gazed.  Then he slipped it into his pocket, and out he came—­where I immediately pinned him by the neckerchief.

And, after a while, finding he could not again break my hold, he lay still, beneath me, panting, and, as he lay, his one eye glared more balefully and his other leered more waggishly than ever, as I, thrusting my hand into his pocket, took thence the purse, and transferred it to my own.

“Halves, mate!” he panted, “halves, and we’ll cry ‘quits.’”

“By no means,” said I, rising to my feet, but keeping my grip upon him.

“Then what’s your game?”

“I intend to hand you over as a pickpocket.”

“That means ’Transportation’!” said he, wiping the blood from his face, for the struggle, though short, had been sharp enough.

“Well?” said I.

“It’ll go ’ard with the babby.”

“Baby!” I exclaimed.

“Ah!—­or the hinfant, if you like it better—­one as I found in a shawl, a-laying on the steps o’ my van one night, sleeping like a alderman—­and it were snowing too.”

“Yet you are a thief!”

“We calls it ‘faking.’”

“And ought to be given up to the authorities.”

“And who’s to look arter the babby?”

“Are you married?”