open at the Burial
of the Dead, and it was understood that he had read that service over
himself before taking leave of the world. He had also written his will
with a point of the said brace-buckles upon the brick of his cell. He
himself (Mr. Rolfe) had been called as a witness at the inquest, and had
thereby obtained two hours' relaxation from labor; but upon the whole he
would rather have been working with his gang--the affair had quite upset
him; and, since its occurrence, the inmates of Lingmoor were forbidden
to use braces.

"Were there any escapes from Lingmoor by any other means?" inquired
Richard.

"Escapes?" Mr. Rolfe's countenance assumed a more solemn vacuity than
ever. It was an indiscretion of his young friend to shape that word with
his lips while a warder sat in the same carriage. Yes, there had been
such things even at Lingmoor. But it was a difficult job, even for one
used to cracking cribs. The outer wall was not to be scaled without a
ladder, and ladders were even more difficult to procure than tobacco.
Even if you did get over the outer wall, the space around the prison was
very bare, and the sentries had orders to shoot you fleeing. If you got
to Bergen Wood, two miles away, you might be safe so far, but it was a
dangerous business. Nobody had ever done it yet without "putting
somebody out."

This was a euphemism for murder, as Richard was by this time "old hand"
enough to know.

"Warders?" inquired he indifferently; for he had already learned to
value that objectionable class at a low figure.

"Hush! Yes; you must kill 'a dog' or two before you say good-by to
Lingmoor, unless you can put them to sleep." (Bribery.) "There was a man
once as had to kill his pal to do it."

"How could that help him?" Richard felt no interest whatever in these
narratives as stories; but since they referred to escapes they
entrancing. The convict who is cast for death thinks of nothing but a
reprieve; the "lifer" or the long-termer, thinks of nothing but an
escape--and (sometimes) vengeance.

"Well, it was curious. There was a 'Smasher'" (utterer of counterfeit
coin) "named Molony in for life there--a thin-shanked, shambling fellow,
as Smashers mostly are--mere trash. He had got a file, this fool, and
dared not use it--kept it as close as though it were 'bacca,' and waited
for his chance, instead of making his chance for himself. Damme, if _I_
had a file!"

Mr. Rolfe's feelings of irritation were almost too mu