expressive of perplexity and expectation, sat for some time in profound and gloomy silence. One of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and the third a robber of fifty years, whose nose had been almost beaten in, in some old scuffle, and whose face bore a frightful scar which might probably be traced to the same occasion. This man was a returned transport, and his name was Kags.

‘I wish,’ said Toby turning to Mr. Chitling, ‘that you had picked out some other crib when the two old ones got too warm, and had not come here, my fine feller.’

‘Why didn’t you, blunder-head!’ said Kags.

‘Well, I thought you’d have been a little more glad to see me than this,’ replied Mr. Chitling, with a melancholy air.