In an upper room of one of these houses⁠—a detached house of fair size, ruinous in other respects, but strongly defended at door and window: of which house the back commanded the ditch in manner already described⁠—there were assembled three men, who, regarding each other every now and then with looks 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.