'Good Lord, I hope not, said Paul.
His sentence of seven years' penal servitude was rather a blow. 'In ten years she will be worn out, he thought as he drove in the prison van to Blackstone Gaol.
* * *
On his first day there Paul met quite a number of people, some of whom he knew already. The first person was a warder with a low brow and distinctly menacing manner. He wrote Paul's name in the 'Body Receipt Book' with some difficulty and then conducted him to a cell. He had evidently been reading the papers.
'Rather different from the Ritz Hotel, eh? he said. 'We don't like your kind 'ere, see? And we knows 'ow to treat 'em. You won't find nothing like the Ritz 'ere, you dirty White Slaver.
But there he was wrong, because the next person Paul met was Philbrick. His prison clothes were ill‑fitting, and his chin was unshaven, but he still wore an indefinable air of the grand manner.
'Thought I'd be seeing you soon, he said. 'They've put me on to reception bath cleaner, me being an old hand. I've been saving the best suit I could find for you. Not a louse on it, hardly. He threw a little pile of clothes, stamped with the broad arrow, on to the bench.
The warder returned with another, apparently his superior officer. Together they made a careful inventory of all Paul's possessions.
'Shoes, brown, one pair; socks, fancy, one pair; suspenders, black silk, one pair, read out the warder in a sing‑song voice. 'Never saw a bloke with so much clothes.
There were several checks due to difficulties of spelling, and it was some time before the list was finished.