“There’s Scotch haddies that never knew anything about Scotland,” he said, “for I’ve made lots of them myself by Tower-street, just a jump or two from the Lambeth station-house. I used to make them on Sundays. I was a wet fish-seller then, and when I couldn’t get through my haddocks or my whitings of a Saturday night, I wasn’t a-going to give them away to folks that wouldn’t take the trouble to lift me out of a gutter if I fell there, so I presarved them. I’ve made haddies of whitings, and good ones too, and Joe made them of codlings besides. I had a bit of a back-yard to two rooms, one over the other, that I had then, and on a Sunday I set some wet wood a fire, and put it under a great tub. My children used to gut and wash the fish, and I hung them on hooks all round the sides of the tub, and made a bit of a chimney in a corner of the top of the tub, and that way I gave them a jolly good smoking. My wife had a dry fish-stall and sold them, and used to sing out ‘Real Scotch haddies,’ and tell people how they was from Aberdeen; I’ve often been fit to laugh, she did it so clever. I had a way of giving them a yellow colour like the real Scotch, but that’s a secret. After they was well smoked they was hung up to dry all round the rooms we lived in, and we often had stunning fires that answered as well to boil crabs and lobsters when they was cheap enough for the streets. I’ve boiled a mate’s crabs and lobsters for 2-1/2_d._; it was two boilings and more, and 2-1/2_d._ was reckoned the price of half a quarter of a hundred of coals and the use of the pan. There’s more ways than one of making 6_d._, if a man has eyes in his head and keeps them open. Haddocks that wouldn’t fetch 1_d._ a piece, nor any money at all of a Saturday night, I’ve sold--at least she has” (indicating his wife by a motion of his thumb)--“at 2_d._, and 3_d._, and 4_d._ I’ve bought fish of costers that was over on a Saturday night, to make Scotch haddies of them. I’ve tried experience” (experiments) “too. Ivy, burnt under them, gave them, I thought, a nice sort of flavour, rather peppery, for I used always to taste them; but I hate living on fish. Ivy with brown berries on it, as it has about this time o’ year, I liked best. Holly wasn’t no good. A black-currant bush was, but it’s too dear; and indeed it couldn’t be had. I mostly spread wetted fire-wood, as green as could be got, or damp sticks of any kind, over shavings, and kept feeding the fire. Sometimes I burnt sawdust. Somehow, the dry fish trade fell off. People does get so prying and so knowing, there’s no doing nothing now for no time, so I dropped the dry fish trade. There’s few up to smoking them proper; they smoke ’em black, as if they was hung up in a chimbley.”