His companion on these visits was a grizzled terrier. One day he came alone.
“Your dog, Mr. Marwood—where is it?” he was asked.
The old man was sad.
“My poor old dog is dying—my dog that knew the business like a Christian and the inside of every prison in England; that has played with my ropes; that has caught rats in my business bags.”
“Dying by inches,” was the unfeeling rejoinder of a bystander, followed by the cruel suggestion, “Why don’t you hang him?”
Marwood gave him a reproachful glance.
“No, no. Hang a man, but my dear old dog—never!”
Poor Marwood had a good heart, and the story of the dog was so affecting that the interview abruptly terminated.
Berry, the executioner, was paid for a sitting, and seemed by no means averse from having his figure placed in the Chamber of Horrors, where it may now be seen. He rather appeared to be proud of his official calling.