have an express boat ready; at Dover have other express trains waiting. It is now ten; at twelve we must be at Ramsgate. I will to the King at once."

The Cardinal entered the cabinet of the King without ceremony. His Majesty was repairing another

clock. He looked up surprised.

"Your Majesty," gasped the Cardinal, "we are in the most imminent danger; the-the-it-ah! yum!" Here his Eminence foamed at the mouth and fell down in a fit. His Majesty the King, although he knew very well what to do to a clock which wouldn't go, didn't know exactly what to do to a Cardinal under similar circumstances; so he simply stuck a bradawl into the fleshy part of the Cardinal's leg, which had the effect of bringing his Eminence to.

"Where was I?" said he.

"Well, that's what I want to know," said the King. "Your Majesty," said the Cardinal (and here his face grew terribly dark and earnest), "your Majesty, prepare for the most disastrous news! The the Mufti Cadj-y-Puttars is at Ramsgate! and -and (here the Cardinal turned ghostly pale)-and he has the Ice-pail in his pocket!"

The King instantly seized the clock he had been repairing and hurled it at the largest mirror in the room, which he smashed to atoms. He then hid himself in an empty water-butt.

What is this "Ice-pail?"-this tremendous power which seems to govern the fate even of nations? This will be disclosed in our next chapter, by my esteemed colleague.

A Fortune in a fog.

BY JOSEPH MASON.

T is said that it is an ill wind which blows nobody good, thereby implying that even an east wind in May has its uses and its benefits. But what about a wind that brings a fog, either by land or sea?

Those who have evil designs may certainly prosecute them with comparative safety when the law is perforce even blinder than Justice herself; but unless it be conceded that a thief who fills his pockets with stolen things, under the shadow of the fog, has acquired some good thereby, as to which subtle arguments might be raised, the wind that brings a fog must be voted ill beyond all other winds. When men concoct a story, or, more pointedly still, construct a melo-drama, it is surprising how neatly and consistently virtue gets the best of it. When the hero is at bay, and the villain, armed with a murderous knife, is about to do unutterable things, the hero invariably finds that he has a loaded pistol handy, and so bids the scoundrel defiance. Or, again, if vice discovers a will that disinherits virtue, there is invariably a flaw in it, or there is a satisfactory codicil up the chimney. A fog shows no such partiality for goodness. It is very much the other way. To the mariners at sea, to the movers to and fro in every degree or sphere, it is equally a terror and a danger. How impotent we feel when the black pall has settled, enshrouding all things in its impenetrable veil, and paralysing the sense upon which we depend so much to guide us safely, that, when it is lost to us, we are helpless indeed. Though everywhere a trouble and a danger, it is in London that a fog

reaches the climax of misery. Here am I, trying to find my way home to my quiet bachelor home in Camden Town, and to find out also what possible good this fog is doing, or any other fog ever has done.

"Yes," I was saying to myself, as I turned a corner, "I should like to see the man who could prove to me that such a fog as this ever brought an atom of good to anybody."

"Hallo! mind where you are going, will you?" said a tall and decidedly heavy fellow, as he ran—yes, literally ran—against me, and nearly threw me down. I was too indignant and out of breath to reply, and he resumed "There, you've made me miss it; now what shall I do ?"

I could not see his face, but I felt sure, from the sound of his voice, that there was nothing mischievous about him; so I ventured mildly to hint that the fault was his own.

"Oh, yes, that's all very well; but what am I to do ? I'm lost."

"I should say that you are like a good many people to-night," said I; "I've been lost half a dozen times in my walk from the City."

"What!" almost bellowed he, "have you come from the City in this fog?

"I have," I replied, "but it has taken me nearly three hours to do it. I'd rather do that, though, than trust my neck to any sort of riding."

"Well, you're a good one," said he. am I now ?”

"But where

"To the best of my belief you are in Salisbury Street, Camden Town; but we can soon find out."

"You don't mean that? Well, I'm lucky after all, for I want No. 47 in this very street."

"Indeed!" said I; "that happens to be my house." "Are you Mr. Collins, managing clerk of Messrs. Hamer and Co., the great City auctioneers?"

I replied that such was my position.

"Now, that is what I do call lucky," said he. "I am Mr. Dixon, of Ewell, in Surrey.

I've been away from

I've been

home some weeks; only got back last night. Saw in the paper this morning that your firm have got the Fern Estate for sale, and that, if not sold by private treaty before the 12th inst., it will be offered for sale by auction. Now, I'm particularly anxious to get a part of it-I can't afford it all; but my little place is next to it on one side, and I want badly to get the Gorsy Farm, if I can. There are sure to be several 'big guns' after it, but if I could secure that bit, I would not mind paying more for it than you would get for that part if you sold the whole in one lot. I came up by the next train, called at your City place, found all the heads away" (I had been dining with a wealthy client), "got your address, came along, got lost, and was just running to catch a 'bus I thought I heard down there, when I ran against the very man I wanted."

He, of course, accompanied me home, and had some tea. Then, as the fog still hung densely, I told him he must make himself comfortable for the night. Having come to conditional terms about the Gorsy Farm-for the vendors had given us an unusual discretion in dealing with the property-we chatted over our toddy, and the conversation naturally turned upon fogs. I mentioned two or three of the incidents of my walk home, one of which was an encounter in the Euston Road with a policeman on duty, who was steadily tramping from one lamp-post to the next and back again, and never beyond, fearing that if he deviated even a dozen paces from his track he would not find his way again. Well," said my guest, "much as I have reason to like a fog, I can understand that man's feelings."

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"You said, ' much as I have reason to like a fog,' as if you meant it," I remarked,

"So I do-a fog was the making of me."

This excited my curiosity, more especially because of my cogitations on my way home, about the utter uselessness of fogs, so I asked him to tell me all about it. He complied.

"I'm pretty well off now, for I've a nice little place down at Ewell all my own, and money enough, as you see, to buy a few acres more when the chance offers. Twenty years ago, however, I was a city policeman, young and strong, but found it hard work to make ends meet on a guinea a week; for, though I say it, I was honest, and if a well-to-do farmer, who had just sold his cattle, and got drunk on the proceeds, or an excursionist with more money than wit, who had taken too much liquor, got into my hands, they were never the worse off, save for the magistrate's fine, on that account. I was often tempted sorely; many and many a fine haul I might have had and nobody any the wiser, but when I was a little lad at a village school down in Northamptonshire, one of the copies we had to write was, 'Honesty is the best policy,' and I always said I'd give it a fair trial. I was anxious too to get on, for I was nearly six-and-twenty, and there was a girl waiting for me. Folks are very fond of making fun of X1 and Sarah Jane, but I don't see why a decent servant girl and a respectable member of the force are not quite as much at liberty to love one another, and get married, and still do their duty in their walk of life, as well as anybody else. Well, I'd been in the City force about twelve months, and Christmas was close at hand. Trade was bad, and the winter had set in early, and was very hard. The consequence was that the regular rogues were more daring than ever, and many who would have been honest so long as they could be so without suffering for it, turned thieves when the pinch came. At length Christmas Eve arrived, and 1 was in high spirits, for, after going off duty at nine that night, I had got leave of absence for two days, and was going down to