The Receiving Ward was a long low room, with windows secured by bars, at each end. There were two grates, but only one contained any fire. The place was remarkably clean—the floor, the deal tables, and the forms being as white as snow.
The following conversation forthwith took place between the new prisoner and the steward:—
"What is your name?"
"Arthur Chichester."
"Have you got your bread?"
"Yes."
"Well—put it in that pigeon-hole. Do you choose to have sheets to-night on your bed?"
"Certainly."
"Then that will be a shilling the first night, and sixpence every night after, as long as you remain here. You can, moreover, sleep in the inner room, and sit up till twelve o'clock. Those who can't afford to pay for sheets sleep in a room by themselves, and go to bed at a quarter to ten. You see we know how to separate the gentlemen from the riff-raff."
"And how long shall I be allowed to stay up in the Receiving Ward?"