An old man (though only one of many) added considerably to my burthen. He took a great fancy to me—or my food—and seldom lost a chance of persecuting me. He was never without a pocket-handkerchief stuffed full of crusts, chop bones, suet pudding, or any garbage he could find, firmly clutched by day, and placed under his pillow at night. He was by way of being a gentleman, and said, with some degree of truth, that he was a general officer (he was at present undergoing three months’ retirement for stealing a sovereign from a sixpenny lodging-house keeper). He approached one with the blandest smile, hoped you were not seriously ill, and asked how your appetite was. This, indeed, was the burthen of his song:—If you told him it was bad, he begged you to kindly reserve your fragments for him; if you said it was good, he stole what he could. The result was consequently the same; and so to get rid of him I promised to help him when I could. This nasty old man slept two beds from me, and often during the night, “when everything was still,” I have watched him unpack his treasure, and, selecting certain of the stalest pieces for immediate use, carefully tie up and restore the bundle to beneath his pillow or mattress. This hoarding and stealing of food was by no means confined to the “General”; it was, indeed, so much in vogue that periodical raids were made on the beds, and even inside the shirts men were wearing, which invariably resulted in the exhumation of sundry delicacies. So strong was the ruling passion that one wretch with half a lung, who was allowed extras which he never consumed, rather than part with a crumb, would hide chops and even rice pudding in his pocket-handkerchief and towel, or secrete them in his bedding or about his person.