One fine morning No. 8642 (George Parker, seven years’) was called out on parade. Peace fell out when he heard these welcome words. He was marched before a principal warder and the governor, and interviewed as to his intentions on discharge.
He was asked kindly enough by the governor where he was going to take his discharge to? What occupation he thought of following? If he had a wife, or family, or friends?
Peace said he was desirous of returning to his native town, Sheffield, in which place he had a wife.
A kindly admonition as to his future good conduct was given by the governor, who informed him that a gratuity would be given him upon the day of his release.
But a certain ceremony had to be gone through. Peace was drafted off with a batch of other permissive men to the photographers’ room, where the whole party had their cartes de visite taken.
On the Saturday morning preceding the day of liberation, another ceremony had to be gone through. The prisoner is taken to the store-room, called the tailors’ cutting-room; here he has to change his clothes, his prison garb is taken off, and, in its stead, a suit of clothes is furnished him, in which he is to enter the world again.
Peace was glad enough to have a new rig out, after which he was marched off by a prison official to an open space of ground adjoining the gaol; at this place some fifteen or twenty persons were assembled. This assembly of persons consisted chiefly of the detective police, who inspect minutely the man who is about to be discharged.
Peace bowed to the throng of detectives, who made some jocular remarks, the nature of which our hero understood but too well. “Ah, I see, No. 8642, name George Parker, sentence seven years.”
“Yes, sir,” returned Peace; “that’s quite correct.”
“Convicted of burglary, sent here from Millbank?”