“Come out here, lad,” he exclaimed firmly, but kindly.
The lad came out, looming like a small and ragged patch of twilight in utter blackness until he gradually appeared before us. He was not a big lad, not more than thirteen years old, I should say, with a short-cropped bullet-head, and with an old hard face with twice thirteen years of vice in it.
The prison dress consisted of a sort of blouse and trousers, both of a stout woollen material of slate colour. It was evening, and evidently, the captive, hopeless of release that night, had, previously to our disturbing him, composed himself for slumber. His method, doubtless derived from frequent experience of so disposing his attire as to get as much warmth out of it as possible, was somewhat curious: he had released his trousers of their braces, so that they descended below his feet, and the collar of his blouse was pulled up high over his ears. Owing to his embarrassed habiliments, he shambled out of the pitchy blackness at a snail’s pace, his white cotton braces trailing behind like a tail, and completing his goblin-like appearance.
“This is a very bad lad, sir,” remarked the governor sternly; “he only came in yesterday, and to-day while out for exercise with the others, he must misconduct himself, and when the warder reproved him, he must swear some horrible oath against him. It is for that he is here. How many times have you been here, lad?”
Lad (gulping desperately). “Three times, sir!”
Governor (sternly). “What! speak the truth, lad.”
Lad (with a determined effort to gouge tears out of his eyes with his knuckles). “Four times, sir.”
Governor. “Four times! and so you’ll go on till you are sent away, I’m afraid. Can you read, lad?”
Lad (with a penitential wriggle). “Yes, sir; I wish as I couldn’t, sir.”
Governor. “Ah! why so?”