loaf will change hands for a mug of gruel in the twinkling of an eye; if he suddenly turns round, advantage is taken of it to swap something on the other side; and at dinner hour especially, I have seen bread, potatoes, and lumps of meat flying about with a rapidity, precision of aim, and a profound silence, only disturbed by the “flop, flop,” as they reached the various hands, that would have done credit to the most expert Oriental-Whitechapel juggler. After breakfast everyone is supposed to remain at his table without interruption the entire day, except during exercise, and time is only to be beguiled by reading such wholesome literature as “The Converted Burglar, and how he did it,” as the chaplain may be graciously pleased to supply. At the side of each table is considerately placed a handful of fibre, which is purely optional whether picked or no. I attribute its presence indeed to the association that invariably exists in official minds between hospitals, chapels, and mortuaries, and only capable of being dealt with on the principle that a certain old gentleman “finds some mischief still for convalescent hands to do.” Happily no one really is ill in the convalescent ward (he would then be removed to the hospital), or it would be absolutely impossible to bear the incessant fuss from officials and filth from the prisoners that never cease day or night. Not twenty minutes elapse during the twenty-four hours that someone is not passing through; and as every approach is barricaded and double locked, the rattle of keys, the hobnailed boots of head warders pounding over the floor, and the shouting and yelling, and the necessity of “sitting up” to your table as they pass through, make it almost unbearable for even a convalescent. In addition to this is the absolute necessity of keeping one’s eye on one’s next-tabled neighbour. If you turn round during a meal, a piece of food disappears, and any trifle you may happen to possess cannot be considered your own from one moment to another. I had a worsted needle that I prized considerably; it fulfilled the duties of a toothpick, and had been my constant companion and comforter for weeks. It was, indeed, my most cherished possession. I usually kept it inside my cap, and my cap outside my head; here at least it was safe, but one day, in a fit of absence, I crossed over the room. On my return I discovered that my cap had been rifled and the needle gone.