Chewing was an accomplishment I did not acquire in a day; indeed, it took me weeks. At first it made me absolutely poorly, but I persevered, and eventually found it as agreeable as smoking. I could not, however, manage the twist, and invariably used the honey-dew or negro-head. This daintiness was not unattended with inconvenience, as no shop in the neighbourhood kept such a thing, and involved journeys to the Strand or Oxford Street. I was never so foolish as to keep the tobacco about me, and my cell was as free of it as any hermit’s. In the grounds, however, it was perfectly safe; tobacco under a stone might belong to anybody, and though the suspicion would probably have cost me my staff appointment, absolute conviction would have been impossible. To say that I was free from some sort of suspicion would be hardly correct, for although I was never searched myself—except on the one occasion before mentioned—my next-door neighbour was “turned over” about twice a week. The reason that led to this was as follows:—I had found this man specially useful—he was quite a second Mike to me; anything I required he did, and in return I gave him portions of my superfluous food, and occasionally a piece of tobacco. This traffic had not passed unnoticed, and had been communicated to a warder by another prisoner, who felt himself aggrieved at the preference shown by me for his fellow prisoner. These sneakings are universally practised, and through my entire experience I had to be careful of these wretches; they watched me and hated me, and if they got the chance, always rounded on “The Swell.” Swell indeed! The swelling had long ago subsided. I only weighed, thank heavens! about fourteen stone. These sneakings never affected me, and one of these individuals was once considerably astonished at getting three days bread and water for a privileged communication about me. A circumstance that occurred one day impressed me very much on the matter of destiny, and the accidents that sometimes combine to form a link between two individuals that a month or two previously would never have been dreamed of. It was the day on which (the late) Dr. Lamson had been sentenced to death. I was standing not far from the prison van, which had lately returned after depositing him at the House of Detention, and watching two prisoners cleaning it out. The partition that he had occupied contained three or four pillows, and I was informed it was a delicate attention on the part of the Government to prevent condemned men intentionally injuring themselves. “What are those pillows for?” I asked of a turnkey. “Oh, they’re only Dr. Lamson’s,” was the facetious reply; “he was sentenced to-day, so we just put them in for fear he should chafe himself, poor fellow.” When the cleaning was over my brother reprobate led me to understand he had made a discovery. Beneath the pillows he had found three cigars; he considerately gave me one, as indeed prison etiquette