It is half-past ten by the Cathedral clock when he walks out into the Precincts again; he lingers and looks about him, as though, the enchanted hour when Mr.
Durdles may be stoned home having struck, he had some expectation of seeing the Imp who is appointed to the mission of stoning him.
In effect, that Power of Evil is abroad.

Having nothing living to stone at the moment, he is discovered by Mr.Datchery in the unholy office of stoning the dead, through the railings of the churchyard.

The Imp finds this a relishing and piquing pursuit; firstly, because their resting-place is announced to be sacred; and secondly, because the tall headstones are sufficiently like themselves, on their beat in the dark, to justify the delicious fancy that they are hurt when hit.
Mr.Datchery hails with him: 'Halloa, Winks!' He acknowledges the hail with: 'Halloa, Dick!' Their acquaintance seemingly having been established on a familiar footing.
'But, I say,' he remonstrates, 'don't yer go a-making my name public.

I never means to plead to no name, mind yer.

When they says to me in the Lock-up, a-going to put me down in the book, "What's your name ?" I says to them, "Find out." Likewise when they says, "What's your religion ?" I says, "Find out."' Which, it may be observed in passing, it would be immensely difficult for the State, however statistical, to do.
'Asides which,' adds the boy, 'there ain't no family of Winkses.' 'I think there must be.' 'Yer lie, there ain't.