Peace did not want a second bidding—he was soon outside the cell. The warder placed the hard round felt wide-a-wake on his head, and the truly wretched scarecrow, “her Majesty’s licence-holder,” was hurried to the entrance gates, where more signing was done, and the official copy of the “licence,” signed by one of the directors of convict prisons, placed in his hand.
This was the last ceremony he had to go through. He found an officer in prison uniform waiting to conduct him to the railway station, and the wicket being at length unlocked, the ticket-of-leave man and his conductor passed through.
Peace was once more a free man!
As the two proceeded towards the railway station, jeers and remarks were made by several passengers, which were in no way complimentary to our hero, but convicts on release have to bear these indignities, which, to say the truth, they are subject to, both inside and outside the prison walls.
The officer in charge of Peace presented the governor’s order, and obtained a ticket at the same rate as charged for soldiers.
The released convict had by this time regained his confidence. At the request of his conductor he entered the carriage.
The official did not leave him until the train was in motion.
While the train was at a standstill, he gave some excellent advice to his man—this is a way they have—good advice costs nothing—and it may be of service or not—in most cases it has but little effect upon the man to whom it is offered so unsparingly. The officer’s last words to Peace were, “Keep in the right path for the future, and mind you report yourself in accordance to the instructions.”
“All right! Thank you, sir. Farewell!” cried Peace, who was whirled along at the rate of thirty miles an hour.
After the train had started the passengers began to speak.