I knew him before he went in. His name was Feltman then. And when they let him out I took him because I felt sure he had everything to gain by sticking to me, and everything to lose by giving me away.
Etchingham.
My God!
George Winter.
He can tell you what you’re in for. What the broad arrow’s like to wear, and what the food’s like to eat. And the work—it’s a healthy life, regular hours—you’re strong for your age. I don’t see why you shouldn’t break stones in the quarries with the rest of us. Hour after hour with your back feeling as if it were going to break, and your arms aching, aching, but not so badly as your heart.
[Bennett breaks down and sobs, difficultly trying to restrain himself.
George Winter.
And you count the days, three hundred and sixty-five in a year, and you wonder if they’ll ever come to an end. And your mind keeps on working. It wouldn’t be so bad if you were a brainless hulk like the man who’s sweating away beside you; but you think, and you can’t help thinking. And you curse yourself. And you think of the people outside who are free to do as they like, and you think of the spring-time and the flowers, and you think of the pleasant streets of London. And then there’s the regret which wrings your heart day after day, and you wish—you wish a thousand times you were dead. You sleep, you’re too tired not to, even though you’ve got hunger gnawing at your vitals, for you’re hungry, always hungry—and in your sleep you dream that you’re back again in your home, happy and comfortable; and when you wake up and feel your hard prison bed, you cry like a child.
Bennett.
Oh, my God! My God!