He stepped quickly into the enclosure, which he found to be about three feet in length and about the same in width. His tall figure of six feet four was practically telescoped.
"Close your door now and turn on the steam," he ordered. "I'll give you the signal when I've had enough."
The door was closed and the steam turned on.
He stood it three minutes and gave the signal of release.
He stepped out, stretched his long legs, and breathed deeply. He mopped his brow and there was fire in his sombre eyes as he turned to Welles:
"Mr. Secretary, I want every one of those things dumped into the sea. Never again allow it to be found on a vessel flying the American flag!"
In an hour every sailor in the harbor had heard the news. The old salts who had felt its shame and agony lifted their caps and stood with bared heads, cheering and crying as he passed.
One by one, every country of Europe heard the news and the sweat box ceased to be an instrument of discipline on every sea of the civilized world.
Seated at his desk in the White House, he received daily the great and the humble, and no man or woman came and left without a patient hearing. There were over thirty thousand cases of trial and condemnations by court-martial every year now—only a small portion with the death penalty attached—but all had the right to appeal. They were not slow in finding the road to the loving heart.
Stanton, worn out by vain protests against his pardons, sent Attorney General Bates at last.