he vehicle after
them. Then he turned to the red-whiskered man, and inquired fiercely,
why he hadn't put the darbies on the scoundrel.

"Never you mind that," was the sharp reply. "I'm responsible for the
young gentleman's safe-keeping, and that's enough."

"Young gentleman! I am sure the young gentleman ought to be much obliged
to you," replied Solomon, contemptuously. "Young felon, you mean."

"Nobody's a felon until after trial and conviction," observed the little
man, decisively. "Let's have no misunderstanding and no obligation, Mr.
Coe; that's my motto."

Here the wheels began to rumble, and a shadow fell over the vehicle and
those it held: they were passing under the archway of the jail.

CHAPTER XXII.

LEAVING THE WORLD.

What wondrous and surpassing change may be in store for us when the soul
and body have parted company none can guess; but of all the changes of
which man has experience in this world, there is probably none so great
and overwhelming as that which he undergoes when, for the first time, he
passes the material barrier that separates guilt from innocence, and
finds himself in the clutches of the criminal law. To be no longer a
free man is a position which only one who has lost his freedom is able
to realize; the shock, of course, is greater or less according to his
antecedents. The habitual breaker of the law is aware that sooner or
later to the "stone jug" he must come; his friends have been there, and
laughed and joked about it, as Eton boys who have been "swished" make
merry with the block and rod, and affect to despise them; the situation
is, in idea at least, familiar to him; yet even he, perhaps, feels a
sinking of the heart when the door of the prison-cell clangs upon him
for the first time, and shuts him from the world. The common liberty to
go where we will is estimated, while we have it, at nothing; but, once
denied, it becomes the most precious boon in life. How infinitely more
poignant, then, must be the feelings of one thus unhappily
circumstanced, to whom the idea of such a catastrophe has never
occurred; who has always looked upon the law from the vantage-ground of
a good social position, and acquiesced in its working with complacence,
as in something which could have no personal relation to himself!

Thus it was with Richard Yorke when, for the first time, he found
himself a prisoner in the hands of Mr. Dodge, the detective, and his
blue-coated assistant. For the ti