Out in the street he shook himself like a wet dog. Francis said kindly:
“I am sorry indeed to meet you again in such unfortunate circumstances, Mr. Lawrie.”
“Blethers!” said the old man. “One prison is like unto another. Man. I’ve made a philosophical discovery of the first magnitude. The dirty soul of man was written on the walls of my cell. . . . When last we met—as they say in the plays—you were kind enough to listen to some verses of mine. What d’ye think of this?”
He took a deep breath, and blew out his chest.
“I composed it as I lay on the hard board in my cell. I wrote it on the wall among the rest, for the benefit and better understanding of my successors:
This place is but a room in Hell,
Damned for the punishment of thieves
Who steal their brothers’ booty; for ’tis sure
The small thief starves on what the big thief leaves.
What d’ye think of it?”
“Admirable!” said Serge.
Old Lawrie turned to him:
“And who may you be? You’ve a bonny voice.”