hing?' he says. 'It's 2001,' I says; 'he's always idling and
malingering.'"

"Ha, ha, ha! what did he get?"

"Three days' bread and water, a week's marks, and loss of class
privileges. He didn't mind the grub and the time, but Jack-in-the-box,
who was warder on his landing, said he took it proper bad as he
couldn't write home to the missis."

"What's his dose?"

"Three. One of the old lags would do it on his head, and fetch it easy,
too. He's a scholar, and could get to be a wardsman in the infirmary, or
medicine factotum for the croaker, or maybe book-keeper for the
governor. But he's earned no remissions, and he'll fill his time afore
he slings his hook again."

Hugh Ritson could support the gossip no longer. He got up to leave the
house, but before doing so he pushed open the door that led to the
adjoining room, and stood a moment on the threshold, comprehending
everything and everybody in one quick glance. The air breathed fresh
outside. He walked in the gathering gloom of evening to the ruins of the
church by the cliff, and, passing through the lych-gate, he came on the
beaten track to the rocks. The rocks lay a hundred feet beneath, torn
from the mainland in craggy masses that seemed ready to slide from their
base to the deep chasm between. Could it be possible that men who were
the slaves of hinds like those in yonder tavern could cling to their
little lives while a deliverance like this beetling cliff stood near? A
cold smile played on Hugh Ritson's face as he thought that, come what
would, such slavery was not for him.

The sycamore by the ruined chancel pattered in the breeze, and the
wheatear's last notes came from its top-most bough. Far below the waves
were rocking lazily. There were other waves at Hugh Ritson's feet--the
graves of dead men. Some who were buried there long ago were buried in
their chains. Under the earth the fettered men--on the ruins of the
church the singing bird. Across the sea the light was every moment
fading. In another hour the day would be done, and then the moon would
look down peacefully on the fettered and the free.

Hugh Ritson returned to the Portland Arms Inn. He found the
police-sergeant in conversation with the ruddy-faced gentleman who had
wished to explain to him the mysteries of the Reeve staff.

"He is the doctor at the prison," whispered the sergeant aside.

Presently Hugh turned to the doctor and said:

"Do you happen to know the convict B 2001?"

"Yes--D