Paul was led away.
“The men in the kitchen have lodged a complaint that they cannot work with C.2.9,” said the Chief Warder. “They say he has an infectious skin disease all over his hands.”
“I can’t be worried with things like that,” said the Governor irritably. “I am trying to decide upon Case R.’s—I mean D.4.12’s—third stage of reclamation.”
Case R. of the Lucas-Dockery experiments began on the new regime that afternoon.
“Come out,” said the warder, unlocking his cell, “and bring your ’at.”
The parade ground, empty of its revolving squads, looked particularly desolate.
“Stand there and don’t move till I come back,” said the warder.
Presently he returned with a little bony figure in prison dress.
“This ’ere’s your pal,” he said; “this ’ere’s the path you’ve got to walk on. Neither of you is to touch the other or any part of ’is clothing. Nothing is to be passed from one to the other. You are to keep at a distance of one yard and talk of ’istory, philosophy or kindred subjects. When I rings the bell you stops talking, see? Your pace is to be neither quicker nor slower than average walking-pace. Them’s the Governor’s instructions, and Gawd ’elp yer if yer does anything wrong. Now walk.”
“This is a silly dodge,” said the little man. “I’ve been in six prisons, and I never seen nothing to touch it. Most irregular. You doesn’t know where you are these days. This blinking prison is going to the dogs. Look at the Chaplain. Wears a wig!”
“Are you here for long?” asked Paul politely.
“Not this time. They couldn’t get a proper charge against me. ‘Six months for loitering with intent.’ They’d been watching me for weeks, but I wasn’t going to let them have a chance this time. Now six months is a very decent little sentence, if you take my meaning. One picks up with old friends, and you like it all the more when you comes out. I never minds six months. What’s more, I’m known here, so I always gets made ‘landing-cleaner.’ I expect you’ve seen my hand often enough coming round with the grub. The warders know me, see, so they always keeps the job open for me if they hears I’m coming back. If you’re nice to ’em the first two or three times you’re ’ere, they’ll probably do the same for you.”
“Is it a very good job?”
“Well, not as jobs go, but it’s a nice start. The best job of all is Reception-cleaner. One doesn’t get that for years, unless you’ve special recommendations. You see, you has all the people coming in fresh from outside, and you hears all the news and gets tobacco sometimes and racing tips. Did you see the cleaner when you came in? Know who he is?”
“Yes,” said Paul, “as a matter of fact, I do. He’s called Philbrick.”
“No, no, old man, you’ve got the wrong chap. I mean a big stout man. Talks a lot about hotels and restaurants.”
“Yes, that’s the man I mean.”
“Why, don’t you know who that is? That’s the Governor’s brother: Sir Solomon Lucas-Dockery. Told me so hisself. ’Ere for arson. Burnt a castle in Wales. You can see he’s a toff.”
III
The Death of a Modern Churchman
Some days later Paul entered on another phase of his reclamation. When he came into the prison-square for his afternoon exercise he found that his companion’s place had been taken by a burly man of formidable aspect. He had red hair and beard, and red-rimmed eyes, and vast red hands which twirled convulsively at his sides. He turned his ox-like eyes on Paul and gave him a slight snarl of welcome.
“Your new pal,” said the warder. “Get on with it.”
“How do you do?” said Paul politely. “Are you here for long?”
“Life,” said the other. “But it doesn’t matter much. I look daily for the Second Coming.”
They marched on in silence.
“Do you think that this is a good plan of the Governor’s?” asked Paul.
“Yes,” said his companion. They walked on in silence, once round, twice round, three times round.
“Talk, you two,” shouted the warder. “That’s your instructions. Talk.”
“It makes a change,” said the big man.
“What are you here for?” asked Paul. “You don’t mind my asking, do you?”
“It’s all the Bible,” said the big man. “You should read about it there. Figuratively, you know,” he added. “It wouldn’t be plain to you, I don’t suppose, not like it is to me.”
“It’s not an easy book to understand, is it?”
“It’s not understanding that’s needed. It’s visions. Do you ever have visions?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Nor does the Chaplain. He’s no Christian. It was a vision brought me here, an angel clothed in flame, with a crown of flame on his head, crying ‘Kill and spare not. The Kingdom is at hand.’ Would you like to hear about it? I’ll tell you. I’m a carpenter by profession, or at least I was, you understand.” He spoke a curious blend of cockney and Biblical English. “Not a joiner—a cabinetmaker. Well, one day I was just sweeping out the shop before shutting up when the angel of the Lord came in. I didn’t know who it was at first. ‘Just in time,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’ Then I noticed that all about him there was a red flame and a circle of flame over his head, same as I’ve been telling you. Then he told me how the Lord had numbered His elect and the day of tribulation was at hand. ‘Kill and spare not,’ he says. I’d not been sleeping well for some time before this. I’d been worrying about my soul and whether I was saved. Well, all that night I thought of what the angel had told me. I
