“Now then, G.2.14,” in a kindly voice, “your punishment’s hover for this time, and I ’opes you’ll hact more sensible in future—you may get back to your cell.”
The lad staggered blindly to his feet, and the warder, catching hold of him, arranged his mask—a piece of dark grey cloth, having eyelet holes, and a tiny bit of alpaca inserted for the mouth—over his face.
On the back of his jacket were painted in white letters two inches long, H.C.W.S., which initials stood for House of Correction, Wandsworth, Surrey.
Staying his staggering steps with his strong arm, the warder conducted him back to his cell, into which he locked him.
Then the boy, with a great groan, or sigh of relief, threw up his mask, and looked about the little room. He had tasted nothing but bread and water for the last four days, and his Sunday breakfast, consisting of a pint of oatmeal gruel and six ounces of bread, stood ready for his acceptance, and by the side of the bread was—what?
Something that made him forget his great bodily hunger, and start forward with a ray of joy breaking all over his sullen face. This was what he saw.
A letter was here—a letter ready for him to open.
He had heard that once in three months the Wandsworth prisoners were allowed to write and receive letters. This rule he had heard with indifference—in all his life he had never had a letter—what matter was it to him whoever else got them.
He knew how to read and write. Long ago, when a little lad, he had learned these accomplishments—he could also decipher the writing of other people, and spelt his own name now on the little oblong packet which had found its way into his cell.