The clocks were striking nine when Frank issued from Miss Tippet’s dwelling¹ and walked briskly away. On turning a corner he came upon one of the numerous fire-escapes that nightly rear their tall heads against the houses all over London, in a somewhat rampant² way, as though they knew of the fires that were about to take place, and, like mettlesome³ war-horses, were anxious to rush into action without delay.

 

On the pavement, close by the escape, stood a small sentry-box, and the moment Frank came in sight of it he remembered that it was the nocturnal habitation of his friend Conductor Samuel Forest. Sam himself was leaning his arms on the lower half of his divided door, and gazing contemplatively along the street.

 

“Well, Sam, what news?” inquired Frank as he came up.

 

“That you, Willders?” said Sam, a quiet smile of recognition playing on his good-humoured features. “I thought it must be the giant they’re exhibitin’ in Saint James’s Hall just now, takin’ a stroll at night to escape the boys. Why, when do you mean to stop growing?”

 

“I don’t mean to interfere⁴ with Nature at all,” replied Frank; “and I believe the world will be big enough to hold me, whatever size I grow to.”

 

“Well, what’s the news?” inquired Sam, emerging from his narrow residence, and proving in the act, that, though not quite so tall as his friend, he was one who required a pretty fair share of room in the world for himself.

 

“Nothing particular,” said Frank, leaning against the escape; “only a chimney and a cut-away affair last night, and a false alarm and a first-floor burnt out the day before.”

 

“How’s Thompson?” asked Forest.

 

“Poorly, I fear,” said Frank, with a shake of his head. “The sprained⁵ ankle he got when he fell off the folding-board is getting well, but the injury to his

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