It was not far to the sheds, and after a few minutes' walk through the wooden palisades they reached a long stone building, two storeys high, from which issued a horrible growling, pierced with shrilly screamed songs. At the sound of the musket butts clashing on the pine-wood flagging, the noises ceased, and a silence more sinister than sound fell on the place.
Passing between two rows of warders, the two officers reached a sort of ante-room to the gaol, containing a pine-log stretcher, on which a mass of something was lying. On a roughly-made stool, by the side of this stretcher, sat a man, in the grey dress (worn as a contrast to the yellow livery) of “good conduct” prisoners. This man held between his knees a basin containing gruel, and was apparently endeavouring to feed the mass on the pine logs.
“Won't he eat, Steve?” asked Vickers.
And at the sound of the Commandant's voice, Steve arose.
“Dunno what's wrong wi' 'un, sir,” he said, jerking up a finger to his forehead. “He seems jest muggy-pated. I can't do nothin' wi' 'un.”
“Gabbett!”
The intelligent Troke, considerately alive to the wishes of his superior officers, dragged the mass into a sitting posture.
Gabbett—for it was he—passed one great hand over his face, and leaning exactly in the position in which Troke placed him, scowled, bewildered, at his visitors.
“Well, Gabbett,” says Vickers, “you've come back again, you see. When will you learn sense, eh? Where are your mates?”
The giant did not reply.