humbug, although
(so persistent is human nature) a really good, generous man would have
been liked and respected. "I could be pious for a pound a day," said one
prisoner in my hearing, with reference to the chaplain's salary. "Yes,"
said the man he spoke to, "so could I, or 'arf of it."

One Sunday the lesson was the story of Peter's miraculous rescue from
prison. "Ah," said an old fellow to his pal, "that was a good yarn we
heard this morning. I'd like to see th' angel git 'im out o' Holloway."

Parson Plaford was evangelical, but a thorough Churchman, and he had a
strong preference for those of his own sect. There was in the prison a
young fellow, the son of a wealthy member of Parliament, whose name
I need not disclose. He was doing eighteen months for getting into
difficulties on the turf, and mistaking his father's name for his own.
Having plenty of money, he was able to establish communication with
his friends outside; and this being detected, the Governor kept him
constantly on the move from wing to wing, and corridor to corridor,
so that he might have no time to grow familiar with the officers
and corrupt their integrity. The plan was a good one, but it did not
succeed. Young officers, who work ninety or a hundred hours a week, with
only two off Sundays in three months, for twenty-three shillings, cannot
always be expected to resist a bribe.

The young scapegrace I refer to was very anxious to get out of his cell,
and he applied to the chaplain for the post of schoolmaster's assistant.
The duties of this office are to help bind the books and keep the
library catalogue, and to carry the basket of literature when the
schoolmaster goes the round. Parson Plaford would not entertain the
application. "No," he said, "I begin to think your religious notions
are very unsound. I must have a good Churchman for the post." Well, the
chaplain got his good Churchman; it was an old hand, sentenced twice
before to long terms for felony, and then doing another five or seven
years for burglary and assault.

CHAPTER XIV. THE THIRD TRIAL.

Prison life is monotonous. Day follows day in weary succession. Except
for the card on your door you might lose count of the weeks and forget
the date. I went on eating my miserable food with such appetite as
I had; I crawled between heaven and earth for one hour in every
twenty-four; I picked my fibre to kill the time; and I waded through my
only book, the Bible, with the patience