Nothing after this disturbed the dull dry monotony of his prison life, but as the year was drawing to a close, he daily got more and more anxious to know what penal establishment he was to be drafted to after he had gone through his probationary term at Millbank.
He had gathered scraps of information from several prisoners who professed to know a great deal of the subject, but he did not place much faith in anything they said, for, as a rule, prisoners’ “yarns” are not particularly truthful; nevertheless, he listened to what they had to say.
One man, “an old lag,” said the next batch were going to Chatham, and it very soon transpired that he was correct in this surmise.
In about a fortnight after this Peace became acquainted with the station to which he was to be drafted.
While dinners were being served the chief warder said to him—
“8642, collect all your letters together. Tie up your work, and put all your flannels on.”
“Going away, sir?” said Peace.
“Yes,” returned the warder.
“Where to, sir?”
“Prisoners must not ask questions—it’s against the rules.”