“Why of course I shall keep with you,” replied Fry somewhat contemptuously. “No strangers admitted except in company of an officer.”
Susan still hung fire.
“But you mustn't go to show me the very wicked ones.”
“Why they are all pretty much of a muchness for that.”
“I mean the murderers—I couldn't bear such a sight.”
“Got none,” said Fry sorrowfully; “parted with the last of that sort four months ago—up at eight down at nine you understand, miss.”
Happily Susan did not understand this brutal allusion; and, not to show her ignorance, she said nothing, but passed to a second stipulation—“And, Mr. Fry, I know the men that set fire to Farmer Dean's ricks are in this jail; I won't see them; they would give me such a turn, for that seems to me the next crime after murder to destroy the crops after the very weather has spared them.”
Fry smiled superior; then he said sarcastically:
“Don't you be frightened, some of our lot are beauties; your friend the parson is as fond of some of 'em as a cow is of her calf.”
“Oh! then show me those ones.” Fry took her to one or two cells. Whenever he opened a cell door she always clutched him on both ribs, and this tickled Fry, so did her simplicity.