“Flummuxed,” sure of a month in quod.
In most lodging-houses there is an old man who is the guide to every “walk” in the vicinity, and who can tell every house, on every round, that is “good for a cold ’tater.” In many cases there is over the kitchen mantle-piece a map of the district, dotted here and there with memorandums of failure or success.
Patterers are fond of carving their names and avocations about the houses they visit. The old jail at Dartford has been some years a “padding-ken.” In one of the rooms appears the following autographs:
“Jemmy, the Rake, bound to Bristol; bad beds, but no bugs. Thank God for all things.”
“Razor George and his moll slept here the day afore Christmas; just out of ‘stir’ (jail), for ‘muzzling a peeler.’”
“Scotch Mary, with ‘driz’ (lace), bound to Dover and back, please God.”
Sometimes these inscriptions are coarse and obscene; sometimes very well written and orderly. Nor do they want illustrations.
At the old factory, Lincoln, is a portrait of the town beadle, formerly a soldier; it is drawn with different-coloured chalks, and ends with the following couplet:
“You are a B for false swearing,