Number 666 Off Duty.

Some time after the attempt made upon Sir Richard Brandon’s house, Giles Scott was seated at his own fireside, helmet and truncheon laid aside, uniform taken off, and a free and easy suit of plain clothes put on.

His pretty wife sat beside him darning a pair of very large socks. The juvenile¹ policeman, and the incorrigible² criminal were sound asleep in their respective cribs, the one under the print of the Queen, the other under that of Sir Robert Peel. Giles was studying a small book of instructions as to the duties of police-constables, and pretty Molly was commenting on the same, for she possessed³ that charming quality of mind and heart which induces the possessor to take a sympathetic and lively interest in whatever may happen to be going on.

“They expect pretty hard work of you, Giles,” remarked Molly with a sigh, as she thought of the prolonged hours of absence from home, and the frequent night duty.

“Why, Moll, you wouldn’t have me wish for easy work at my time of life, would you?” replied the policeman, looking up from his little book with an amused smile. “Somebody must always be taking a heavy lift of the hard work of this world, and if a big hulking fellow like me in the prime o’ life don’t do it, who will?”

“True, Giles, but surely you won’t deny me the small privilege of wishing that you had a little less to do, and a little more time with your family. You men,—especially you Scotchmen—are such an argumentative set, that a poor woman can’t open her lips to say a word, but you pounce⁵ upon it and make an argument of it.”

“Now Molly, there you go again, assuming my duties! Why do you take me so sharp? Isn’t taking-up the special privilege of the police?”

“Am I not entitled,” said Molly, ignoring her husband’s question, “to express regret that your work should include coming home now and then with scratched cheeks, and swelled⁶ noses, and black eyes?”

“Come now,” returned Giles, “you must admit that I have fewer of these

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