From these persons I kept as much aloof as possible.  My soul sickened at the contamination to which I was exposed by the society of such ruffians, for they were all of the very worst description of London characters, and I did all I could to maintain the distinction between myself and them, which my innocence of all crime gave me a right to observe.

Under this feeling, it was my habit to sit in a remote part of the cell, and to take no share whatever either in the conversation or in the coarse practical jokes with which they were in the habit of beguiling the tedium of their confinement.

There was one occasion, however, on which I felt myself suddenly caught by an interest in their proceedings.

Seeing them one day all huddled together, listening with great delight to one of their number who was reading a letter aloud, I gradually approached nearer, curious to know what could be in this letter to afford them so much amusement.

Conceive my astonishment and surprise when, after listening for a few minutes, I discovered that the subject which tickled my fellow-prisoners so highly was a description of my own robbery; that is, of the robbery in Glasgow of which I had been the victim.

It was written with considerable humour, and contained such a minute and faithful account of the affair, that I had no doubt it had been written by Lancaster.  Indeed it could have been written by no one else.

The letter in question, then, was evidently one from that person to a companion in crime who was amongst those with whom I was associated—­no doubt he who was reading it.  The writer, however, seemed also well known to all the other parties.

In the letter itself, as well as in the remarks of the audience on it, there was a great deal of slang, and a great many cant phrases which I could not make out.  But, on the whole, I obtained a pretty correct knowledge of the import of both.

The writer’s description of me and of my worldly wisdom was not very flattering.  He spoke of me as a regular flat, and the fleecing me as one of the easiest and pleasantest operations he had ever performed.  He concluded by saying that as he found there was nothing worth while to be done in Scotland, he intended returning to London in a few days.

“More fool he,” said one of the party, on this passage being read.  “That affair at Blackwall, in which Bob was concerned, has not yet blown over, and he’ll be lagged, as sure as he lives, before he’s a week in London.”

“Well, so much the better,” said another.  “In that case we’ll have him across the water with us, and be all the merrier for his company.”

It was, I think, somewhat less than a month after this—­for we were detained in prison altogether about two-months after sentence till a sufficient number had accumulated for transportation—­that we, meaning myself and those in the ward in which I was confined, were favoured with a new companion.