A lodger gave him the name of "Cinders," and he took to it kindly. I was present in the kitchen on the day he arrived as a stranger, nameless and alone, as far as the other lodgers were concerned, for they did not know what name he had entered at the office. He was in rags and tatters, and "Rags" or "Tatters" should certainly have been his name. In fact the name was offered to him, but he returned an unsatisfactory stare. He was preparing his tea at the same table as "Punch," and the latter being in need of a pinch of salt, and seeing none of his friends at tea, asked this stranger to oblige him, saying: "Would you oblige me, 'Rags,' with a pinch of salt?" The man stared at "Punch" for a moment, and then walked away without giving an answer. He was at that time cooking a herring at the fire. Now it so happened that a few moments later this man was pouring out tea, when all at once there was a loud cry of "Whose herring is this?" The man turned quickly at the sound, and beheld his herring making a few spasmodic motions, as it dangled on a long wire. He immediately ran to the rescue, but alas! too late; for the tatters of his loose clothes encompassed him like a deadly plant, and when he arrived the herring was lying motionless under the grate. After great care he succeeded in bringing it to the light, covered with ashes and cinders. Still, with great care, he washed it and, after placing it flat on a plate, returned it to the fire. "I hope you do not blame me for that accident, 'Cinders,'" said kind-hearted "Punch." "Oh, no," answered the man newly named "Cinders." "'Cinders' has too much sense for that," said "Red-Nosed Scotty," who happened to be sitting near. "Whose teapot is this?" cried the kitchen-man, who was about to build the coke fire, and wanted all food and teapots removed. "It belongs to 'Cinders,'" said a number of voices. From that day to this his name is "Cinders," owing to the accident to his herring when he first came. If he was arrested, it would be--"'Cinders' is in jail"; and if he died it would be--"'Cinders' is dead." If a man who goes to live in a common lodging-house does not utter his own name in a very short time, the lodgers will give him one. Brown had a large nose, and would most certainly have been named "Nosey," had he not on the first day recorded a simple anecdote of his childhood, in which he had cause to call himself William Brown.