A little company of men, three convicts and two warders, swung out
under the great granite arch that leads into Dartmoor Prison.
Turning to the left, they strode past the Governor's garden with its
gay beds of tulips and hyacinths, and still keeping up a brisk pace,
emerged a few minutes later into the main street of Princetown. Here
they came to a halt in front of a depressing-looking stone building
which bore an inscription announcing it to be the "Recreation Rooms."
Two villagers were standing chatting on the further side of the road,
but beyond the briefest of brief glances they betrayed no interest in
the arrival of the party. For the inhabitants of Princetown the
spectacle of convicts and warders has lost that attraction which it
still possesses for the citizens of less happily situated towns. It
is only the visitors to the hotel who stare, and on the present
occasion there were no visitors about. They were all out on the
moor, getting the best of a fine spring morning, and as many trout as
it might please Fate to deceive.
One of the warders unlocked the door, and the small party mounted the
steps and entered the building. The interior certainly showed some
traces of the recreation referred to outside. At the further end of
the room was a stage set for an out-of-door scene, while a number of
chairs piled up in the body of the hall suggested that an
entertainment of some kind was under early contemplation.
"All them chairs have got to be set out in rows," remarked the warder
who had opened the door. "Don't take the front lot too near the
stage, and leave a space up the middle, so as folks can pass in and
out. Bascombe, you come along with me!"
The convict addressed, a burly man of about sixty, with twinkling
black eyes, followed the warder up a small flight of steps at the
side of the stage into a room beyond.
It was a nondescript sort of apartment, serving apparently the triple
purpose of a green-room, a dressing-room, and a scene-painter's
studio. A large theatrical basket with Clarkson's label on it stood
in the centre of the floor, and propped against the walls were
several pieces of blank stage canvas awaiting the artist's hand.
"That's them, Bascombe," said the warder, jerking his thumb at the
latter articles. "We want you to paint a room on 'em. It's supposed
to be a scholar's room at Oxford College. D'ye think you can do it?"
The convict nodded his head.
"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.
Inside were several suits of clothes neatly folded and tied into
separate bundles. There were also two or three cardboard boxes, each
one labelled with a different name. For a moment the convict
contemplated them thoughtfully; then with a sudden grin he bent down
and lifted up one of the boxes. A second glance at the door assured
him that he was still unobserved. Opening his find he took out its
contents--a carefully dressed wig of silver-grey hair. A moment
later he was standing in front of a small looking-glass upon the
wall, complacently regarding its effect upon his own cropped head.
The transformation was certainly a successful one. Coming right down
on his forehead, without a scalp-piece to destroy the illusion, the
wig altered his appearance to an extraordinary extent. But for the
hideous broad-arrowed jacket below he might easily have passed for a
rugged, good-natured-looking barrister or country parson.
Something of this incongruity of costume seemed to strike Mr.
Bascombe. With a broadening grin, he retraced his steps to the
basket and silently continued his researches.
The first bundle of clothes which he examined consisted of an
old-fashioned suit of large checks, evidently intended for a comic
gentleman of mature years. Placing them on one side, he next pulled
out a blue and buff livery, gaily ornamented with brass buttons. It
was a handsome costume, but with the sensibility of a true artist Mr.
Bascombe realized at once that it was unsuited to the remainder of
his appearance. Laying it carefully on top of the other, he again
rummaged in the basket, his efforts on this occasion being rewarded
by a roll of sombre garments tied round with a piece of red tape. He
slipped off the latter, and, depositing a pair of trousers and
waistcoat on the ground, held up a long black coat of clerical cut.
Now, Mr. Bascombe was the possessor of a richly-developed sense of
humour, which for five years had been suffering from a deplorable
lack of exercise. Even with the certainty of punishment ahead, he
was quite unable to resist the temptation offered by this outfit.
The sight of the warder's face when that gentleman returned would, he
felt, be more than sufficient compensation for the reduced diet and
loss of marks that would inevitably follow.
Five minutes' swift and silent work, and the metamorphosis was
complete. He stood before the glass smiling hugely at his
reflection--a perfect specimen of a weather-beaten parson of the Jack
Russell school.
Up till then no idea but that of startling the warder had entered his
head. He had drifted into the jest quite undeliberately, dressing
himself up solely out of a sense of mischievous amusement. It was
the unexpected perfection of his disguise that suddenly suggested to
him the possibilities of the situation.
He turned a rapid glance on the locked door, and another on the pile
of convict clothes that lay huddled together beside the basket. For
an instant he stood undecided, then stealthily as a cat he again
stepped across the room and picked up his discarded garments. Tying
them round with the piece of red tape, he thrust them down into the
bottom of the basket, covering them over with the two suits and the
box that he had previously taken out. This done, he shut the lid,
and once more stood motionless, listening intently to the sounds that
reached him from the hall. He could hear nothing but the dull tramp
of his fellow-convicts' feet passing up and down, and the clatter of
the chairs as they were set in their places.
With the grin still embedded on his countenance he slipped
noiselessly across to the outer door. Bending down, he examined the
lock. It was a simple affair--almost insultingly simple for a
gentleman of Mr. Bascombe's capabilities.
He straightened himself and cast a quick look round the room. On the
wall hung a large coloured portrait of King Edward VII, poorly
disguised as a British Admiral. Mr. Bascombe lifted it down with a
delicate care that may have been due to loyalty, and swiftly
unfastened the thick wire by which it had been suspended. From this
he twisted off a piece about ten inches in length, and, picking up
the palette knife from the table, resumed his crouching position in
front of the door.
For about a minute and a half he remained in this attitude, a faint
scratching noise and his own heavy breathing being the only audible
indications of his labour. Then suddenly came a grating sound,
followed a moment later by a sharp click.
Mr. Bascombe did not wait to see if he had been overheard. Rising
quickly and silently to his feet, he opened the door just wide enough
to enable him to reconnoitre his position. Except for a black cat
luxuriously scratching herself in the sunshine, the roadway opposite
was empty. A swift glance up and down showed him there was no one
nearer than the post office. Without a trace of hurry or nervousness
he stepped out and closed the door behind him. A moment later with
magnificent unconcern he was sauntering slowly down the street.
The few people that he passed paid no particular attention to him. A
sunburned, holiday-making clergyman, with smiling countenance and
leisurely gait, is almost as common a sight in Princetown as a
convict. Stopping now and then to look into the shop windows, he
pursued his unhurried way until he reached the corner of the street
opposite the Moorlands Hotel.
Till that moment the problem of what to do with his liberty had not
crossed Mr. Bascombe's mind. His faculties had been wholly absorbed
in the delicious and unwonted sense of freedom to which he had been
so long a stranger. But the sight of that large gold-lettered
inscription upon the white building on the other side of the street
brought him back to more practical considerations. It suggested to
him that liberty, especially liberty of such a precarious nature as
his was likely to prove, should be put to prompt and satisfactory
service.
Being a gentleman of action, he did not wait upon his thoughts.
Moistening his lips, he crossed the road, and still with the same
deliberate dignity mounted the two or three stone steps that led into
the hotel.
A large, fat-faced waiter who was standing just inside saw him coming
and pulled open the door of the comfortably furnished lounge, bowing
obsequiously as he did so. Mr. Bascombe entered, and looked round
with the air of a man well pleased with his environment.
"I want to see the landlord," he remarked.
Again the waiter bowed.
"Yes, sir, I will fetch him, sir. Will you take a seat for a moment?"
He indicated a large, comfortable-looking ottoman upholstered in
green leather.
With a little grunt of satisfaction Mr. Bascombe settled himself down
upon the article in question. His enjoyment of its comfortable
cushions was heightened by the remembrance of the hard wooden stool
which for five years had constituted his only form of sitting
accommodation. Half closing his eyes, he leaned back in an attitude
of luxurious abandonment. There was no one in the lounge beside
himself, the only sound that reached him being a faint murmur of
voices from the bar beyond varied once by the sharp popping of a
cork. At the latter noise a slow smile crept over the convict's
face, and once more he thoughtfully passed his tongue across his lips.
His solitude was broken by the entrance of the landlord, a
cheery-looking little man with grey side-whiskers and a slight
stammer.
"G-good morning, sir," he began; "sorry to have k-kept you waiting."
"That's all right," replied Mr. Bascombe graciously. "I want to know
if you can let me have a room."
"Oh, yes, sir--n-no difficulty about that. Just for the night, or
will you be staying for a f-f-few days?"
"I'm in no hurry," returned Mr. Bascombe, stretching himself
contentedly; then, thinking that perhaps he ought to be more
explicit, he added with a touch of native humour, "It's pleasant to
to be in a comfortable hotel again after what I've had to put up with
lately."
"Indeed, sir!" said the landlord. "Perhaps you're on a w-w-walking
tour?"
He looked round as though expecting to see the inevitable knapsack.
Mr. Bascombe interpreted the glance correctly.
"Yes," he said, "that's it. I've got my baggage coming on by train."
The landlord nodded his head.
"Nothing like walking light," he commented.
"You're right," said Mr. Bascombe, rising to his feet. "By the way,
can I have something to eat? It's a bit early, I know, but the fact
is I didn't have much of a breakfast this morning."
"Why, c-certainly, sir, of course. Lunch won't be ready till one
o'clock, but you can have anything c-c-cold, or a chop, or s-s-steak,
if you pre-prefer it."
"Ah! a steak will do me proud," said Mr. Bascombe with enthusiasm.
"A big 'un for choice, with plenty of potatoes."
"Anything to drink, sir?"
Mr. Bascombe paused a moment so as to let the full beauty of the
question sink into his understanding. Then he replied playfully:
"Well, I think a drop of Burgundy might help it down."
The landlord, whose previous experience of touring clergymen had led
him to regard them as a joyless and unprofitable brood, was delighted
at the mingled geniality and broad-mindedness of his guest. With a
"Certainly, sir; I'll fetch it you myself," he led the way across the
lounge and threw open the door of the coffee-room.
"Perhaps you'd like to g-go to your room first, sir?" he suggested.
Mr. Bascombe cast a contemplative look at his hands.
"I could do with a wash, couldn't I?" he admitted cheerfully. "Dirty
work climbing these hills."
"Oh, we'll soon remedy that, sir!" laughed the landlord. He rang the
bell, and an undersized youth with a shock of red hair appeared from
somewhere in the back regions.
"T-t-take this gentleman up to Number Six, Albert, and g-get him some
hot water. I'll order your lunch, sir," he added. "It will be ready
almost as soon as you are."
Ten minutes later, with comparatively clean hands and a superlatively
acute appetite, Mr. Bascombe re-entered the coffee-room.
The fat waiter, who was just putting the finishing touches to a small
table by the window, looked up as he came in.
"I've laid your lunch 'ere, sir," he remarked. "It's more cheerful
like."
Mr. Bascombe regarded the preparations with an approving eye.
"Good lad," he said, seating himself in the comfortable arm-chair set
out for him. "This'll just about suit my complaint. Now you bung
along and hurry up the cook."
A momentary flicker of surprise illumined the fat waiter's face, but
with the true philosophy of his order he recovered himself
immediately.
"Yes, sir," he remarked with an ingratiating smile. "Shan't keep you
waiting a minute, sir."
He shuffled out into the kitchen, where he repeated the phrase to the
cook.
"Told me to bung along and 'urry up 'is dinner. Fancy a parson
speaking like that!"
"P'r'aps 'e's a Roman Catholic," suggested the cook.
Left to himself, Mr. Bascombe extracted a toothpick from the
wine-glass on the table, and, leaning back in his chair, directed his
gaze out of the window. He perceived at once that for some reason or
other the usually placid main thoroughfare of Princetown was in a
state of no little animation. Outside the grocer's shop opposite the
hotel a group of six or seven men and women stood in the roadway
talking eagerly and staring up the street. Their agitation seemed to
be in some way connected with the prison, for as a warder came
running hastily past they all turned and followed him with their
eyes. Mr. Bascombe instinctively pushed back his chair.
At that moment the door of the coffee-room swung open and the
landlord hurried in, carrying a bottle of Burgundy in his hand. His
face was flushed and excited.
"I'm sorry to have been so long, sir," he began, "but the fact is
we've had a b-b-bit of a shock. A warder has just been round to tell
us that there's a c-c-convict loose in Princetown."
"Gawd bless my soul!" cried Mr. Bascombe, "you don't say so!"
Picking up the bottle of Burgundy, he poured himself out a glass, and
drained it at a gulp. "Give me quite a turn," he explained, filling
it up again.
The landlord regarded him sympathetically.
"Yes, sir, I d-don't wonder. The whole of P-P-Princetown's in a rare
state about it."
Mr. Bascombe, who still seemed to be suffering from the shock, raised
his glass a second time and took two or three long, deliberate sips.
"How did the beggar get away?" he inquired, setting it down again
with a deep breath.
"Well, sir, it seems as how, b-being a scene-painter by trade, the
warders had taken him down to the Recreation Rooms to p-paint a bit
o' stuff for the p-p-play they're doing next week. They left him for
a minute in the room behind the stage, and when they came back they
found he'd f-forced the door and slipped out."
"Careless! careless!" interpolated Mr. Bascombe, filling up his glass.
"Yes, sir, but the amazing thing is, what's happened to him? Being
in c-c-convict clothes, one would think he must have been spotted
directly he showed his nose outside."
A slow smile stole across Mr. Bascombe's face.
"It's a fair puzzler," he admitted. "If he'd got some sort of a
disguise like, now, one could understand it; but----"
There was a clatter of hoofs, and several uniformed men on horseback
galloped past the hotel. The landlord ran to the window.
"There g-goes the civil g-g-guard," he stammered.
Mr. Bascombe again raised his glass.
"Here's luck to 'em!" he remarked generously.
As he drank the toast the fat waiter re-entered bearing a well-laden
tray, which he put down on the neighbouring table.
"Ah! Here's your lunch, sir," said the landlord. "I told them to
send you up the c-c-cold tart and a bit of cheese as well. I thought
you'd be able to manage a square meal after your walk."
"You thought correct," said Mr. Bascombe gratefully.
The waiter deposited a dish in front of him, and removed the cover.
From a large steak, crowned with little brown curls of onion, a most
exquisite flavour mounted into the air. Mr. Bascombe reverently
transferred the entire pile to his own plate, and then helped himself
to a majestic hoard of chipped potatoes.
"You're sure you've got everything you want, sir?" inquired the
landlord with unintentional sarcasm.
His guest gazed meditatively round the table,
"Well, I think we might say a cigar, and a glass of port wine to top
up with," he observed. "No hurry about 'em."
"I'll bring them in, sir, if you'll just tell the waiter when you're
ready."
"Right-o," murmured Mr. Bascombe, lifting a huge forkful to his mouth.
"Shall I fill your glass, sir?" inquired the waiter, as the landlord
departed.
Mr. Bascombe nodded.
"You needn't stop here, Percy," he remarked when the operation was
completed. "I can get through this little lot on my own."
"Very well, sir," said the waiter. "There's a bell on the
mantelpiece, sir, if you want me."
He withdrew to the kitchen, pondering darkly on the unconventional
habits of the Roman Catholic clergy.
Unembarrassed by company, Mr. Bascombe gave himself up without
reserve to the enjoyment of his meal. Having finished the steak and
mopped up the gravy with a bit of bread, he reluctantly pushed back
his plate and turned his attention to the tart. Two generous
helpings of this luxury sufficed him, his repast concluding with a
slab of bread-and-cheese that must effectually have filled up any
spare corners remaining.
While he ate he kept an amused eye on the window, noting the various
symptoms of unrest which were still apparent in the street. It
seemed as though most of the able-bodied men in Princetown were
joining in the search. Armed with sticks or pitchforks, they came
hurrying past one after another to offer their services. In every
case Mr. Bascombe gravely drank the health of the new arrival.
Finally, when the Burgundy was finished, he got up a little
unsteadily from the table and rang the bell. It was answered by the
waiter.
Mr. Bascombe looked at him affectionately.
"'Ullo, Percy!" he remarked; "back again, eh?"
"Yes, sir; you rang, sir."
"So I did. You're quite right, Percy. What was it I wanted?" His
face brightened. "Oh, yes, the port wine and a cigar--the best
quality cigar, mark you. None of your penny stinkers. You tell old
whiskers; he'll see to it."
"Yes, sir," murmured the waiter with a gasp.
He retired from the room, to be succeeded a minute later by the
landlord, bearing an aged-looking black bottle in one hand and a
large cigar-box in the other.
"I hope you enjoyed your lunch, sir," he said, placing these
treasures on the table.
"First-rate," replied Mr. Bascombe, smacking his lips.
"You found the wine all right, sir?"
Mr. Bascombe nodded humorously.
"Yes, he was hiding in the bottle, but I got him out."
This witticism was much to the taste of the landlord, who laughed
uproariously.
"That's g-good, sir! G-g-got him out! Well, I've got something here
that I think you'll find the right sort. A drop of real g-g-genuine
'58--c-c-comet year, you know, sir. I don't offer it to many
gentlemen."
He carefully poured out a glassful and held it up to the light.
Mr. Bascombe sniffed it, took a long sip, and then set down the
wineglass with a wink.
"A little bit of orlright," was his verdict. "Have a glass yourself,
landlord?"
"Thank you, sir; I don't mind if I do."
While he was translating his words into action Mr. Bascombe opened
the cigar-box, which was full of long, light brown Havanas.
"I d-don't know if these are too large, sir?" observed the landlord.
"I can g-g-get you a smaller brand if you pre-prefer it."
"Don't you trouble yourself," replied his obliging guest.
He selected one, bit off the end, and, lighting it with a match from
a stand on the mantelpiece, blew out a thick cloud of fragrant smoke.
It was the supreme moment of his adventure. He felt that Fate had
nothing more to offer him.
"N-no news of the convict yet, sir," remarked the landlord. "The
whole of P-Princetown's out hunting for him."
"Yes," said Mr. Bascombe with a chuckle. "I've been watching 'em go
by. Very handy lot o' chaps they looked." He was silent for a
moment, then suddenly an idea--a terrific; dazzling idea--flooded his
imagination. "Can you let me have a carriage?" he inquired.
"Why, c-certainly, sir. How far are you thinking of going?"
Mr. Bascombe puffed thoughtfully at his cigar.
"I want to go and see the Governor of Princetown. He's a pal o'
mine, old Marshall is. He'd be cut up something horrid if he heard
I'd gone away without looking him up."
At the mention of Colonel Marshall's name the landlord's respect for
his unconventional visitor visibly increased.
"I'll s-s-send out and order the victoria at once, sir," he said.
"It's only about half a mile to the Governor's house, but I expect
you've had enough walking for to-day."
"You're right," said Mr. Bascombe. "Driving's more my mark this
afternoon."
"And w-what train shall we meet your luggage by, sir? The
six-thirty?"
This seemed as good a train as any other to the owner of this
imaginary encumbrance, so he nodded his head.
"Tell 'em to be careful with it, won't you?" he added.
"Oh, yes, sir! That will be all right. You'll be wanting
d-d-dinner, I suppose, sir?"
A sad, prophetic smile flitted across Mr. Bascombe's face.
"I expect I shall," he said simply.
An interval of about seven minutes ensued between the landlord's
departure and the clatter of the victoria as it drew up at the front
door. That this time was not wholly wasted by Mr. Bascombe might
have been gathered either from the reduced weight of the port bottle
or the increased unsteadiness of his own gait as he crossed the hall.
He managed to reach the vehicle without disaster, however, and
climbing in smiled a dignified farewell at the landlord, who had come
out to see him off.
The latter watched his guest drive away with a slightly puzzled
expression.
"Blessed if I don't b-believe his Reverence had a d-drop too much,"
he muttered.
His Reverence certainly had. He lay back in the victoria as it
rolled up the main street feeling immeasurably at peace with mankind.
A gracious haze blurred the animated little groups of women that
still clustered in front of the doorways and mellowed their excited
chatter into a drowsy and not unpleasing murmur. Had the drive been
a few hundred yards longer he would probably have arrived in a state
of slumber, but the jerk of the carriage as it drew up in front of
the Governor's gate just saved him from this social solecism. He
blinked doubtfully for a moment, and then, recognizing his
surroundings, clambered cautiously out.
"Am I to wait, sir?" inquired the driver.
The question seemed to afford Mr. Bascombe some amusement.
"Yes, you wait, old sport," he replied; "shan't be longer than I can
help."
Then, before the astonished driver had recovered from the shock of
this unexpected address, he pushed open the wooden gate that led into
the Governor's garden and advanced in graceful spirals up the
well-kept drive. A vigorous pull at the front-door bell resulted in
the appearance of a neat, dark-eyed housemaid. Mr. Bascombe gazed at
her with approval.
"Good morning, my dear," he remarked affably, holding on to the
doorpost to steady himself. "Is the Colonel at home?"
"Yes, sir," said the maid.
"Well, tell him that an old college friend of his would like to see
him."
For an instant the girl looked at him doubtfully; then, reassured by
the clerical costume, invited him to step inside. Abandoning his
support with extreme care, Mr. Bascombe followed her into a
comfortably-furnished study on the left-hand side of the hall.
"Will you take a seat, sir?" she said.
The invitation was a shade superfluous, for his legs having suddenly
failed him, the visitor had already sat down abruptly in a large easy
chair against the wall.
The uncertainty in the girl's face deepened into dismay.
"I will tell Colonel Marshall you are here," she said shortly, and
with that she hastened from the room, shutting the door behind her.
Mr. Bascombe just had time to pull himself together before the
Governor entered. Colonel Marshall was a tall, soldierly-looking man
with upturned grey moustache and humorous eyes of a keen blue. The
maid had evidently apprised him of her experience, for he looked over
his caller with mingled curiosity, amusement, and suspicion.
"Well, sir," he said, "and what can I do for you?"
Mr. Bascombe, feeling that it would be tempting Providence, made no
attempt to rise. He just sat still and smiled.
"You don't know me?" he observed affably.
"I am afraid not," said the Governor.
"Ah," replied Mr. Bascombe with a chuckle, "that's the disguise, sir!"
Lifting up his hand he removed the wig.
The Governor stared at him for a moment in amazement.
"Good heavens!" he cried, "it's Bascombe!"
The convict bowed.
"You'll excuse my not getting up, sir. No intention of being
disrespectful--been lunching at the Moorlands Hotel."
The Governor sat down in a chair and burst into a roar of laughter.
"You scoundrel!" he chuckled. "You've given us a nice chase. Half
the warders are out after you now. What on earth induced you to
bolt, and where did you get those clothes?"
He broke down again and shook with suppressed merriment.
Thus adjured, Mr. Bascombe unfolded his story. He told it quite
simply, making no attempt to apologize for his escape, or to seek
avoidance in any way of the punishment that awaited him. The
Governor listened with vast interest and amusement, his sense of
humour temporarily overcoming the amazing irregularity of the whole
proceedings. When Mr. Bascombe described his lunch, and the
production of the '58 port, he lay back in his chair and laughed till
the tears ran down his cheeks.
Finally, when the narrative was finished, he got up.
"Well, Bascombe," he said, with a smile, "you've had your fun, and
now you've got to pay for it."
The convict, who was beginning to feel better, rose instantly to his
feet and saluted.
The Governor not unkindly laid his hand upon the old sinner's
shoulder.
"You're a disgrace to the prison, Bascombe," he said, "but I'll do my
best for you."
And Colonel Marshall kept his word.