‘The stolen goods that were brought to the public-house by the Warehouse Porters, were always disposed of in a back parlour. For a long time, I never could get into this parlour, or see what was done there. As I sat smoking my pipe, like an innocent young chap, by the tap-room fire, I’d hear some of the parties to the robbery, as they came in and out, say softly to the landlord, “Who’s that? What does he do here?” “Bless your soul,” says the landlord, “he’s only a”—ha, ha, ha!—“he’s only a green young fellow from the country, as is looking for a butcher’s sitiwation. Don’t mind him!” So, in course of time, they were so convinced of my being green, and got to be so accustomed to me, that I was as free of the parlour as any of ’em, and I have seen as much as Seventy Pounds’ Worth of fine lawn sold there, in one night, that was stolen from a warehouse in Friday Street. After the sale the buyers always stood treat—hot supper, or dinner, or what not—and they’d say on those occasions, “Come on, Butcher! Put your best leg foremost, young ‘un, and walk into it!” Which I used to do—and hear, at table, all manner of particulars that it was very important for us Detectives to know. ‘This went on for ten weeks. I lived in the public-house all the time, and never was out of the Butcher’s dress—except in bed. At last, when I had followed seven of the thieves, and set ’em to rights—that’s an expression of ours, don’t you see, by which I mean to say that I traced ’em, and found out where the robberies were done, and all about ’em—Straw, and Fendall, and I, gave one another the office, and at a time agreed upon, a descent was made upon the public-house, and the apprehensions effected. One of the first things the officers did, was to collar me—for the parties to the robbery weren’t to suppose yet, that I was anything but a Butcher—on which the landlord cries out, “Don’t take him,” he says, “whatever you do! He’s only a poor young chap from the country, and butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth!” However, they—ha, ha, ha!—they took me, and pretended to search my bedroom, where nothing was found but an old fiddle belonging to the landlord, that had got there somehow or another. But, it entirely changed the landlord’s opinion, for when it was produced, he says, “My fiddle! The Butcher’s a purloiner! I give him into custody for the robbery of a musical instrument!”