"I've 'ad three 'a'penny rolls in two days," the Carpenter announced,
after a long pause in the conversation. "Two of them I ate yesterday,
an' the third to-day," he concluded, after another long pause.

"I ain't 'ad anything to-day," said the Carter. "An' I'm fagged out. My
legs is hurtin' me something fearful."

"The roll you get in the 'spike' is that 'ard you can't eat it nicely
with less'n a pint of water," said the Carpenter, for my benefit. And,
on asking him what the "spike" was, he answered, "The casual ward. It's
a cant word, you know."

But what surprised me was that he should have the word "cant" in his
vocabulary, a vocabulary that I found was no mean one before we parted.

I asked them what I might expect in the way of treatment, if we succeeded
in getting into the Poplar Workhouse, and between them I was supplied
with much information. Having taken a cold bath on entering, I would be
given for supper six ounces of bread and "three parts of skilly." "Three
parts" means three-quarters of a pint, and "skilly" is a fluid concoction
of three quarts of oatmeal stirred into three buckets and a half of hot
water.

"Milk and sugar, I suppose, and a silver spoon?" I queried.

"No fear. Salt's what you'll get, an' I've seen some places where you'd
not get any spoon. 'Old 'er up an' let 'er run down, that's 'ow they do
it."

"You do get good skilly at 'Ackney," said the Carter.