“Ah, that he did, and no mistake. After his attempt at escape we handcuffed him—it was by order of the justices we did it,” he added, cautiously.
“And quite right, too, I should say,” returned Jamblin.
“Yes, quite right, sir. Well, he was that stubborn that when we came to look at his handcuffs after three days we found them shaved down as thin as a sixpence just by rubbing ’em together. That was just before his trial, and after his trial he seemed so meek and quiet that the deputy-governor said I might take him out for a walk in the yard with the darbies or the slangs on. And would you believe it, sir? You see that high wall there. I assure you I only turned my head for a moment, and when I looked round he was right on the top of the wall. How ever he got up is a marvel to me. He must have climbed up at the corners like a cat.”
“Dear me, is it possible!” exclaimed the farmer. “I shouldn’t ha’ b’lieved it on him unless you had told me.”
“Fact, sir, I assure you, though none of us said anything about it to the authorities. However, when he was up there,” continued the man, with a laugh, “he had only to come down again, which he did without a murmur, and went on with his walk as if nothing had happened.”
“What an odd thing!”
“Yes, strange—wasn’t it? But you see he must have thought that this here was the outer wall, instead of which it’s the drying-yard between that and the street, and another wall topped with revolving iron spikes. Oh, he was precious artful.”
The prison chaplain came out of the cell as they approached it. The turnkey touched his cap.
“Been to see the prisoner, sir?” said he.
“Yes; he’s bigotted and superstitious to the last degree, but he is deeply sensible of the great crime he has committed, and of the change which awaits him.”