A fellow named Reid has been calling on me repeatedly; an
Australian by birth, he outraged the law so often that he got a
succession of sentences, some of them being lengthy. He tried
South Africa with a like result; South Africa soon had enough of
him, and after two sentences he was deported to England, where he
looked me up.

He carries with him in a nice little case a certified and
attested copy of all his convictions, more than twenty in number.
He produces this without the least shame, almost with pride, and
with the utmost confidence that it would prove a ready passport
to my affection.

I talk to him; he tells me of his life, of Australia and South
Africa; he almost hypnotises me, for he knows so much. We get on
well together till he produces the "attested copy," and then the
spell is broken, and the humour of it is too much for me, so I
laugh.

He declares that he wants work, honest work, and he considers
that his "certificate" vouches for his bona fides. This is
undoubtedly true, but nevertheless I expect that it will be
chiefly responsible for his free passage back to Australia after
he has sampled the quality of English prisons.

My friends and acquaintances meet me or rather I meet them, in
undesirable places; I never visit a prison without coming across
one or more of them, and they embarrass me greatly.

A few Sundays ago I was addressing a large congregation of men in