“In the meantime, the doomed man went through the usual rigmarole: prayers, whiskey, breakfast, more whiskey—march to the gallows. He found an audience of prize-fight size awaiting him. The prison yard was black with people, all the surrounding roofs, trees and telegraph poles were alive with spectators, and many poor chaps who had stood all night in line for their betters, now sold standing room at a premium.
“Officialdom, too, was well represented: the governor of the jail, his aides and assistants, the chief of police in their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, and lots of bobbies” (cops) “—every mother’s son and daughter eager for the hanging, and secretly hoping that no reprieve would spoil the day’s fun, for somehow the story had got abroad that the Home Secretary had almost decided to commute the death sentence of this particular party.
“Meanwhile, preparations proceeded at an encouraging rate: there was the procession headed by the gentlemanly hangman, swinging a rope; then bobbies, jailers, trusties. The doomed man walked rather jauntily at the side of the parson, who was mumbling prayers and looking benign.
“Presently the procession stood under the gallows, all necks craned, and a hush fell upon the expectant crowd as the hangman’s assistant pulled the linen cap down over his victim’s face. As he got busy adjusting the noose, shouts of ‘reprieve!’ ‘reprieve!’ went up. The hangman looked at the governor and the governor turned towards the gate, which had opened to admit a small messenger boy from the telegraph office.
“The boy was waving a yellow envelope over his head, and the governor signalled to the hangman to wait.
“At the same time the telegraph boy was hoisted over the shoulders of the crowd until he reached the place where the governor stood. As the governor received and opened the dispatch, there were more hoarse cries of ‘reprieve!’ and they were not cries of relief or triumph either. Sure, the crowd thought itself cheated. The men and women and children (for there were plenty of children, as usual) thought that they had bet on a horse that didn’t run—a dead horse that wasn’t dead enough, so to speak!
“But, presto! another change. The governor, having glanced at the message, made a wry face, then crumpled the paper up in his hand and threw it on the ground, while he motioned the hangman to proceed.
“The wire was from the aforementioned fakir and it read: ‘Please wire (prepaid) whether hanging has come off according to program—Jack.’ But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that the man about to be put to the worst use one can possibly put a living person to, was allowed to think for several minutes that the Home Secretary had commuted his sentence of death, that he, the doomed one, was going to live after all. I am told they actually stripped the cap off his face, so he could breathe freely.
“Had that chap got used to hanging, or the hanging idea, by the time when the cord was once more drawn tight? Did he think with the French wag (or was it an Englishman?) ‘hang me, your Highness? No, that would be the death of me.’
“So in our case; no, a thousand times no, for in the interval the poor soul had got used to living once more, and a thousand-and-one murderous thoughts were in his heart while he was being swung off into eternity.”