McLevy by James McLevy Page A

life—an idiot’s one, if you please, even in the grave ranks of the highest.
    In February 1837, as I was on my saunter with my faithful Mulholland among the haunts of the Old Town, we observed our old friends Andrew Ireland, John Templeton, and David Toppen, doubling the
mouth of one of the closes leading to Paul’s Work. These industrious gentry are never idle; as they carry their tools along with them, they can work anywhere; and, like the authors, a species
of vagabonds who live on their wits, and steal one from another, they need no stock in trade. It was clear to me that we were unobserved, and proceeding down another close, I expected to meet them
probably about their scene of action. I may mention that I was somewhat quickened in my movements by some recollections that Ireland had cost me a deal of trouble—the more by token that he
was called “the Climber”, as being the best hand at a scramble, when cats would shudder, in all the city, for which he had refused for sometime to give me even the pledge of his body.
We got down the close and round the corner, just in the nick of time to see the tail of Andrew’s coat disappearing from the top of a pretty high dyke. The two others followed the example of
the Climber, and when they had disappeared, we placed ourselves at the side of the wall to receive them on their descent. The cackling of fowls soon told us the nature of their work, and the
gluggering of choking craigs was a clear indication that the robbers were acting on the old rule that “the dead tell no tales.”
    “Sure of the Climber this time,” I said to my assistant. “I will seize Andrew and Templeton, and lay you hold of Toppen.”
    And the words were scarcely out of my mouth, when we received gratefully our friends in our arms. The dead hens were flung away, and darting at the throats of my two charges, I secured them on
the instant. Mulholland lost his hold, but so pleased was I at my capture, especially of Andrew, that I could not resist a few words in my old way.
    “I was afraid you would fall and break your neck, Andrew,” said I.
    “Thank you for the warm reception,” replied the cool rogue, as he recovered breath after the short tussle.
    “No apology,” said I. “I have told you by a hundred looks that I wanted you.”
    “And sold for a hen at last,” he added, with an oath.
    “And not allowed to eat it,” said I. “What a glorious supper you and the old woman would have had!”
    The taunt was at least due to his oath.
    “Pick up the hens, Mulholland,” said I, “and let us march, we will have a laugh in the High Street.”
    And proceeding with my man in each hand till I came to the head of the close, I gave one of them in charge of a constable, retaining the other. Mulholland with the hens brought up the rear, and
I believe we cut a good figure in our march, if I could judge from the shouts of the urchins—tickled with a kind of walking anecdote, that carried its meaning so clearly in the face of it,
for it is seldom that the booty makes its appearance in these processions.
    On arriving at the Office, my charges were locked up. Toppen was caught the same evening; and this part of my story of the metamorphosis being so far preclusive, I may just say that my
hen-stealers were forthwith tried by the Sheriff and a jury. Each got the price of his hen even at a higher rate than the present price of a fashionable cockerel—Ireland getting nine months,
Templeton six, and Toppen four. But the Climber vindicated his great reputation in a manner that entitled him to still greater fame. Whether it was that the jailer was not made aware of his
abilities, or that he was placed in a cell which it was held to be impossible for any creature without claws on all the four members to get out of, I cannot say; but true it is that, to the utter
amazement of every one connected with the jail, Andrew Ireland got out by the skylight, and finding his way over ridges and down descents