Paul thought of Professor Silenus’s “In ten years she will be worn out,” but he said:
“I’d rather she waited if you think she possibly can.”
“I thought you’d say that, Paul. I’m so glad. Mamma said: ‘I won’t say I don’t know how I shall ever be able to make up to him for all this, because I think he knows I can.’ Those were her words. I don’t suppose you’ll get more than a year or so, will you?”
“Good Lord, I hope not,” said Paul.
His sentence of seven years’ penal servitude was rather a blow. “In ten years she will be worn out,” he thought as he drove in the prison van to Blackstone Gaol.
On his first day there Paul met quite a number of people, some of whom he knew already. The first person was a warder with a low brow and distinctly menacing manner. He wrote Paul’s name in the “Body Receipt Book” with some difficulty and then conducted him to a cell. He had evidently been reading the papers.
“Rather different from the Ritz Hotel, eh?” he said. “We don’t like your kind ’ere, see? And we knows ’ow to treat ’em. You won’t find nothing like the Ritz ’ere, you dirty White Slaver.”
But there he was wrong, because the next person Paul met was Philbrick. His prison clothes were ill-fitting, and his chin was unshaven, but he still bore an indefinable air of the grand manner.
“Thought I’d be seeing you soon,” he said. “They’ve put me on to reception bath cleaner, me being an old hand. I’ve been saving the best suit I can find for you. Not a louse on it, hardly.” He threw a little pile of clothes, stamped with the broad arrow, on to the bench.
The warder returned with another, apparently his superior officer. Together they made a careful inventory of all Paul’s possessions.
“Shoes, brown, one pair; socks, fancy, one pair; suspenders, black silk, one pair,” read out the warder in a singsong voice. “Never saw a bloke with so much clothes.”
There were several checks due to difficulties of spelling, and it was some time before the list was finished.
“Cigarette case, white metal, containing two cigarettes; watch, white metal; tiepin, fancy”—it had cost Margot considerably more than the warder earned in a year, had he only known—“studs, bone, one pair; cuff links, fancy, one pair.” The officers looked doubtfully at Paul’s gold cigar piercer, the gift of the best man. “What’s this ’ere?”
“It’s for cigars,” said Paul.
“Not so much lip!” said the warder, banging him on the top of his head with the pair of shoes he happened to be holding. “Put it down as ‘instrument.’ That’s the lot,” he said, “unless you’ve got false teeth. You’re allowed to keep them, only we must make a note of it.”
“No,” said Paul.
“Truss or other surgical appliance?”
“No,” said Paul.
“All right! You can go to the bath.”
Paul sat for the regulation ten minutes in the regulation nine inches of warm water—which smelt reassuringly of disinfectant—and then put on his prison clothes. The loss of his personal possessions gave him a curiously agreeable sense of irresponsibility.
“You look a treat,” said Philbrick.
Next he saw the Medical Officer, who sat at a table covered with official forms.
“Name?” said the Doctor.
“Pennyfeather.”
“Have you at any time been detained in a mental home or similar institution? If so, give particulars.”
“I was at Scone College, Oxford, for two years,” said Paul.
The Doctor looked up for the first time. “Don’t you dare to make jokes here, my man,” he said, “or I’ll soon have you in the straightjacket in less than no time.”
“Sorry,” said Paul.
“Don’t speak to the Medical Officer unless to answer a question,” said the warder at his elbow.
“Sorry,” said Paul unconsciously, and was banged on the head.
“Suffering from consumption or any contagious disease?” asked the M.D.
“Not that I know of,” said Paul.
“That’s all,” said the Doctor. “I have certified you as capable of undergoing the usual descriptions of punishment as specified below, to wit, restraint of handcuffs, leg-chains, cross-irons, body-belt, canvas dress, close confinement, No. 1 diet, No. 2 diet, birch-rod, and cat-o’-nine-tails. Any complaints?”
“But must I have all these at once?” asked Paul, rather dismayed.
“You will if you ask impertinent questions. Look after that man, officer; he’s obviously a troublesome character.”
“Come ’ere, you,” said the warder. They went up a passage and down two flights of iron steps. Long galleries with iron railings stretched out in each direction, giving access to innumerable doors. Wire netting was stretched between the landings. “So don’t you try no monkey-tricks. Suicide isn’t allowed in this prison. See?” said the warder. “This is your cell. Keep it clean, or you’ll know the reason why, and this is your number.” He buttoned a yellow badge on to Paul’s coat.
“Like a flag-day,” said Paul.
“Shut up, you ⸻ ⸻,” remarked the warder, and locked the door.
“I suppose I shall learn to respect these people in time,” thought Paul. “They all seem so much less awe-inspiring than anyone I ever met.”
His next visit was from the Schoolmaster. The door was unlocked, and a seedy-looking young man in a
