The night-cells were hermetically sealed by oaken doors of massive thickness, bolted and barred in accordance with the former idea that the security of prisoners should depend rather upon bolts and bars than upon the vigilance of the officers in charge. Each door was let into a twenty-four inch brick-wall, and secured by two ponderous bolts and an enormous lock of the most complicated workmanship. These locks were kept constantly oiled. When the gigantic key was inserted, it turned as easily as the key of a watch--that was the rule. When, therefore, on inserting his key into the lock of the first cell, Warder Slater found that it wouldn't turn at all, he was rather taken aback. "Who's been having a game with this lock?" he asked.
Warder Puffin, who was stationed at the head of the stairs to see that the prisoners passed down in order, at the proper distance from each other, replied to him.
"Anything the matter with the lock? Try the next."
Warder Slater did try the next, but he found that as refractory as the first had been.
"Perhaps you've got the wrong key?" suggested Warder Puffin.
"Got the wrong key!" cried Warder Slater. "Do you think I don't know my own keys when I see them?"
The oddest part of it was that all the locks were the same. Not only in Ward A, but in Wards B, C, D, E, and F--in all the wards, in fact. When this became known, a certain sensation was created, and that on both sides of the unlocked doors. The prisoners were soon conscious that their guardians were unable to release them, and they made a noise. Nothing is so precious to the average prisoner as a grievance; here was a grievance with a vengeance.
The chief warder was a man named Murray. He was short and stout, with a red face, and short, stubbly white hair--his very appearance suggested apoplexy. That suggestion was emphasised when he lost his temper--capable officer though he was, that was more than once in a while. He was in the wheel-shed, awaiting the arrival of the prisoners preparatory to being told off to their various tasks, when, instead of the prisoners, Warder Slater appeared. If Murray was stout, Slater was stouter. He was about five feet eight, and weighed at least 250 pounds. He was wont to amaze those who saw him for the first time--and wondered--by assuring them that he had a brother who was still stouter--compared to whom he was a skeleton, in fact. But he was stout enough. He and the chief warder made a striking pair.
"There's something the matter with the locks of the night-cells, sir. We can't undo the doors."
"Can't undo the doors!" Mr. Murray turned the colour of a boiled beetroot. "What do you mean?"