“Good-morning,” said the chaplain—a kind-hearted Devonshire parson, who took more than the usual perfunctory interest in his patients, as he was wont to call them.
“Good-morning, sir,” replied the soldier, respectfully, and with an accent of surprise.
“You have no money, I suppose?”
“Not a sou, your reverence,” replied the man.
“Then,” said the chaplain, “here are two shillings. They will at least keep you for a day or two. Seek work and keep honest. God bless you.”
“Heaven reward you!” replied the man, writhing under the kindness of the clergyman. The visitant to the outer world did not move, however. He looked up and down the hill, as if hesitating in what direction he should go.
“That,” said the parson, pointing down the hill, “that is the way to London”—saying which he turned up the avenue, and so re-entered the precincts of the gaol. But the man did not take the direction indicated by his benefactor. There was something in the atmosphere of Brixton which seemed to agree with him. He found its attractions more considerable than do most visitors to the noted locality. He wandered in an aimless way up and down by-streets. But the police—always solicitous about the welfare of discharged prisoners—kept their eyes on him. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. And he repeated with something of bitter irony in his tone the parting admonition of the chaplain.
“‘Seek work and keep honest!’ No easy matter, Mr. Parson, with these sleuth-hounds on the trail.”
Towards evening he entered a small beer-house in the Cornwall Road, a thoroughfare not far removed from the gaol. Here he refreshed himself with bread and cheese and beer. Here also he found company who did not object to his society, for it is a comforting reflection that there are more wicked people outside gaols than in them. And among these excellent fellows he spent the time, until at the hour of twelve the landlord was obliged to turn his customers into the bleak and blustrous night.
The man bade good-bye to his companions, and sought the high road. He proceeded up the hill with his back turned on London. When he came to the substantial house of the Rev. Stanley Blewton he stopped, looked up and down the road to see that he was not followed, and then passed into the clergyman’s front garden, creeping forward under the shadow of the bushes.