"It's for 'Dick's Uncle,' ain't it, sir?" he drawled. "I remember the set. Saw it from the gallery at the old Strand."
"That's right," said the warder. "Well, you shove along with it. There are your paints and brushes."
He pointed to a small wooden table where a supply of scene-painter's accessories were neatly laid out.
The convict wandered slowly round the room, inspecting the various pieces of canvas with a critical eye. Then, selecting the largest, he pulled up the table alongside, and taking the palette in his hand began to prepare his colours.
It was soon evident that he was no novice at his business. The few bold strokes in charcoal with which he outlined his sketch had all that firmness and accuracy that only come from long practice.
With fascinated eyes the warder gazed upon the process. The gradual emergence of an interior at Oxford College, in reply to the apparently irresponsible dabs and daubs of a convict, seemed to him to savour of the miraculous. Only the iron sense of discipline which permeated their relations prevented him from openly expressing his admiration to the artist.
After watching the work for about a quarter of an hour, he at length rose reluctantly to his feet, picking up the rifle which he had balanced against a chair.
"I'm goin' on the stage to see about the gas brackets, Bascombe," he said. "I'll be back in a minute. You push on with that there paintin'. We want it ready for the re'earsal Friday, if you can manage it."
He crossed the room to a door, which apparently opened into the street, and, turning the handle, satisfied himself that it was properly locked. Then, after a final look round and a last approving glance at the canvas, he clumped off through the narrow exit that led to the stage.
For a minute or so after his departure the convict continued to paint. He was sketching in the rough outline of a fire-place, and the operation evidently engrossed his entire attention. As he worked he whistled softly and tunefully, stepping back every now and then to contemplate his labours. At last he laid down his brush, and, stretching himself with a prolonged yawn, gazed listlessly about him. His eye fell on the big basket in the centre of the room. He stared at it for a moment in a sort of idle curiosity, then with a swift glance at the door through which the warder had gone out he stepped noiselessly across and lifted the lid.