Sir Richard’s footman backing the invitation, the boy was carried into the house accordingly, laid on the housemaid’s bed, and attended to by the cook, while the policeman went out to look after the runaways.

“Oh! what ever shall we do?” exclaimed the cook, as the boy showed symptoms of returning consciousness.

“Send for the doctor,” suggested the housemaid.

“No,” said the butler, “send for a cab, and ’ave the boy sent home. I fear that master will blame me for givin’ way to my feelin’s, and won’t thank me for bringin’ ’im in here. You know he is rather averse to the lower orders. Besides, the poor boy will be better attended to at ’ome, no doubt. I dare say you’d like to go ’ome, wouldn’t you?” he said, observing that the boy was looking at him with a rather curious expression.

“I dessay I should, if I could,” he answered, with a mingled glance of mischief and pain, “but if you’ll undertake to carry me, old cock, I’ll be ’appy to go.”

“I’ll send you in a cab, my poor boy,” returned the butler, “and git a cabman as I’m acquainted with to take care of you.”

“All right! go a’ead, ye cripples,” returned the boy, as the cook approached him with a cup of warm soup.

“Oh! ain’t it prime!” he said, opening his eyes very wide indeed, and smacking his lips. “I think I’ll go in for a smashed pin every day o’ my life for a drop o’ that stuff. Surely it must be wot they drinks in ’eaven! Have ’ee got much more o’ the same on ’and?”

“Never mind, but you drink away while you’ve got the chance,” replied the amiable cook; “there’s the cab coming, so you’ve no time to lose.”

“Vell, I am sorry I ain’t able to ’old more, an’ my pockets wont ’old it neither, bein’ the wuss for wear. Thankee, missus.”

He managed, by a strong effort, to dispose of a little more soup before the cab drew up.

“Where do you live?” asked the butler, as he placed the boy carefully in the bottom of the cab with his unkempt head resting on a hassock, which he gave him to understand was a parting gift from the housemaid.

“Vere do I live?” he repeated. “Vy, mostly in the streets; my last ’ome was a sugar barrel, the one before was a donkey-cart, but I do sometimes condescend to wisit my parents in their mansion ’ouse in Vitechapel.”

“And what is your name? Sir Richard may wish to inquire for you—perhaps.”

“May he? Oh! I’m sorry I ain’t got my card to leave, but you just tell him, John—is it, or Thomas?—Ah! Thomas. I knowed it couldn’t ’elp to be one or t’other;—you just tell your master that my name is Robert, better known as Bobby, Frog. But I’ve lots of aliases, if that name don’t please ’im. Good-bye, Thomas. Farewell, and if for ever, then—you know the rest o’ the quotation, if your eddication’s not bin neglected, w’ich is probable it was. Oh! by the way. This ’assik is the gift of the ’ouse-maid? You observe the answer, cabby, in case you and I may differ about it ’ereafter.”

“Yes,” said the amused butler, “a gift from Jessie.”

“Ah!—jus’ so. An’ she’s tender-’earted an’ on’y fifteen. Wots ’er tother name? Summers, eh? Vell, it’s prettier than Vinters. Tell ’er I’ll not forget ’er. Now, cabman—’ome!”

A few minutes more, and Bobby Frog was on his way to the mansion in Whitechapel, highly delighted with his recent feast, but suffering extremely from his broken limb.

Meanwhile, the brown pony—having passed a bold costermonger, who stood shouting defiance at it, and waving both arms till it was close on him, when he stepped quickly out of its way—eluded a dray-man, and entered on a fine sweep of street, where there seemed to be no obstruction worth mentioning. By that time it had left the agonised father far behind.

The day was fine; the air bracing. The utmost strength of poor little Diana, and she applied it well, made no impression whatever on the pony’s tough mouth. Influences of every kind were favourable. On the illogical principle, probably, that being “in for a penny” justified being “in for a pound,” the pony laid himself out for a glorious run. He warmed to his work, caused the dust to fly, and the clothes-basket to advance with irregular bounds and swayings as he scampered along, driving many little dogs wild with delight, and two or three cats mad with fear. Gradually he drew towards the more populous streets, and here, of course, the efforts on the part of the public to arrest him became more frequent, also more decided, though not more successful. At last an inanimate object effected what man and boy had failed to accomplish.

In a wild effort to elude a demonstrative cabman near the corner of one of the main thoroughfares, the brown pony brought the wheels of the vehicle into collision with a lamp-post. That lamp-post went down before the shock like a tall head of grain before the sickle. The front wheels doubled up into a sudden embrace, broke loose, and went across the road, one into a greengrocer’s shop, the other into a chemist’s window. Thus diversely end many careers that begin on a footing of equality! The hind-wheels went careering along the road like a new species of bicycle, until brought up by a donkey-cart, while the basket chariot rolled itself violently round the lamp-post, like a shattered remnant, as if resolved, before perishing, to strangle the author of all the mischief. As to the pony, it stopped, and seemed surprised at first by the unexpected finale, but the look quickly changed—or appeared to change—to one of calm contentment as it surveyed the ruin.

But what of the fair little charioteer? Truly, in regard to her, a miracle, or something little short of one, had occurred. The doctrine that extremes meet contains much truth in it—truth which is illustrated and exemplified more frequently, we think, than is generally supposed. A tremendous accident is often much less damaging to the person who experiences it than a slight one. In little Diana’s case, the extremes had met, and the result was absolute safety. She was shot out of her basket carriage after the manner of a sky-rocket, but the impulse was so effective that, instead of causing her to fall on her head and break her pretty little neck, it made her perform a complete somersault, and alight upon her feet. Moreover, the spot on which she alighted was opportune, as well as admirably suited to the circumstances.

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