“That’s enough for him,” interrupted the foreman, “we’d best not overdo it. Got his arms tied, lads?”
“You’ll suffer for this,” he cried.
“I’ll take me oath you will,” said the foreman. “Now then, two of you at each arm and—march! Boy, blow out the gas and lock up.”
No one was encountered on the way to the lamp room who had authority to interfere with the plans of the Up Office, and the unfortunate man was conducted at a sharp walk to that gloomy, sooty, greasy haven. The place reeked with oily waste, and some appeared to have been smouldering, giving a result that nice people would call displeasing. The uneven flooring was laid out with lakes of dirty water; zinc counters did not permit themselves to be touched. The foreman turned out the one glimmer of light as though by accident.
“Got a match on you?” he asked the prisoner in a kindly tone.
“Only one box.”
“Hand it over,” ordered the foreman, “for a moment. Thanks,” slipping it into his pocket. “Now we can catch our twelve-fifteen. Good night, old sort.”
“’Appy dreams,” cried the others.
“Don’t be late in the morning,” called out the boy porter.
The imprisoned man, not daring to trust himself to reply, heard the door close, heard the lock shoot. He groaned, and began to reckon the black hours that he would have to endure in the place; at the least, the number would be six; he did not care to think what it might be at the most. Throughout the whole of the time he was unable to close his eyes, and his only relief to the length of the hours came by thinking of the report that he would indite the following morning. He polished up in his mind some of the references to the boy porter, and to the man who gripped his arm in bringing him from the Up Office; it seemed that his suspicions in regard to the pilferages were centred, for some reason, on those who had most aggrieved him. Before daylight began to grin at him through the barred window of the lamp room he had mentally completed his report, and the last paragraph he felt was especially good.