It Is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Reade Reade

went at the crank with all his soul, and never gave them an excuse for calling him “refractory.” It happened, however, one day, just after breakfast, that he was taken with a headache and shivering; and not getting better after chapel, but rather worse, he rang his bell and begged to see the surgeon. The surgeon ought to have been in the jail at this hour. He was not, though, and as he had been the day before, and was accustomed to neglect the prisoners for any one who paid better, he was not expected this day. Soon after Fry came to the cell and ordered Robinson out to the crank. Robinson told him he was too ill to work.

      “I must have the surgeon's authority for that, before I listen to it,” replied Fry, amateur of routine.

      “But he is not in the jail, or you would have it.”

      “Then he ought to be.”

      “Well, is it my fault he's shirking his duty? Send for him, and you'll see he will tell you I am not fit for the crank to-day; my head is splitting.”

      “Come, no gammon, No. 19; it is the crank or the jacket, or else the black hole. So take which you like best.”

      Robinson rose with a groan of pain and despondency.

      “It is only eight thousand words you have got to say to it, and they are not many for such a tongue as yours.”

      At the end of the time Fry came to the mouth of the labor-cell with a grim chuckle. “He will never have done his number this time.” He found Robinson kneeling on the ground, almost insensible, the crank-handle convulsively grasped in his hands. Fry's first glance was at this figure, that a painter might have taken for a picture of labor overtasked; but this was neither new nor interesting to Fry. He went eagerly to examine the meter of the crank—there lay his heart, such as it was—and to his sorrow he found that No. 19 had done his work before he broke down. What it cost the poor fever-stricken wretch to do it can easier be imagined than described.

      They assisted Robinson to his cell, and that night he was in a burning fever. The next day the surgeon happened by some accident to be at his post, and prescribed change of diet and medicines for him. “He would be better in the infirmary.”

      “Why?” said the governor.

      “More air.”

      “Nonsense, there is plenty of air here. There is a constant stream of air comes in through this,” and he pointed to a revolving cylinder in the window constructed for that purpose. “You give him the right stuff, doctor,” said Hawes jocosely, “and he won't slip his wind this time.”

      The surgeon acquiesced according to custom.

      It was not for him to contradict Hawes, who allowed him to attend the jail or neglect it, according to his convenience, i. e., to come three or four times a week at different hours, instead of twice every day at fixed hours.

      It was two days after this that the governor saw Hodges come out of a cell laughing.

      “What are ye grinning at?” said he, in his amiable way.

      “No. 19 is light-headed, sir, and I have been listening to him. It would make a cat laugh,” said Hodges apologetically. He knew well enough the governor did not approve of laughing in the jail.

      The governor said nothing, but made a motion with his hand, and Hodges opened cell 19 and they both went in.

      No. 19 lay on his back flushed and restless with his eyes fixed on vacancy. He was talking incessantly and without sequence. I should fail signally were I to attempt to transfer his words to paper. I feel my weakness and the strength of others who in my day have shown a singular power of fixing on paper the volatile particles of frenzy; however, in a word, the poor thief was talking as our poetasters write, and amid his gunpowder, daffodils, bosh and other constellations there mingled gleams of sense and feeling that would have made you and me very sad.

      He often recurred to a girl he called Mary, and said a few gentle words to her; then off again into the wildest flights. While Mr. Hawes and his myrmidons were laughing at him, he suddenly fixed his eyes on some imaginary figure on the opposite wall and began to cry out loudly, “Take him down. Don't you see you are killing him? The collar is choking him! See how White he is! His eyes stare! The boy will die! Murder! murder! murder! I can't bear to see him die.” And with these words he buried his head in the bedclothes.

      Mr. Hawes looked at Mr. Fry; Mr. Fry answered the look. “He must have seen Josephs the other day.”

      “Ay! he is mighty curious. Well, when he gets well!” and, shaking his fist at the sufferer, Mr. Hawes went out of the cell soon after.

CHAPTER XI.

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“WHAT is your report about No. 19, doctor?”

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      “The fever is gone.”

      “He is well, then?”

      “He is well of the fever, but a fever leaves the patient in a state of debility for some days. I have ordered him meat twice a day—that is, meat once and soup once.”

      “Then you report him cured of his fever?”

      “Certainly.”

      “Hodges, put No. 19 on the crank.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Even the surgeon opened his eyes at this. “Why, he is as weak as a child,” said he.

      “Will it kill him?”

      “Certainly not; and for the best of all reasons. He can't possibly do it.”

      “You don't know what these fellows can do when they are forced.”

      The surgeon shrugged his shoulders and passed on to his other patients. Robinson was taken out into the yard. “What a blessing the fresh air is!” said he, gulping in the atmosphere of the yard. “I should have got well long ago if I had not been stifled in my cell for want of room and air.”

      Robinson went to the crank in good spirits; he did not know how weak he was till he began to work; but he soon found out he could not do the task in the time. He thought therefore the wisest plan would be not to exhaust himself in vain efforts, and he sat quietly down and did nothing. In this posture he was found by Hawes and his myrmidons.

      “What are you doing there not working?”

      “Sir, I am only just getting well of a fever, and I am as weak as water.”

      “And that is why you are not trying to do anything, eh?”

      “I have tried, sir, and it is impossible. I am not fit to turn this heavy crank.”

      “Well, then, I must try if I can't make you. Fetch the jacket.”

      “Oh! for Heaven's sake don't torture me, sir. There is nobody more willing to work than I am. And if you will but give me a day or two to get my strength after the fever, you shall see how I will work.”

      “There! there! —— your palaver! Strap him up.”

      He was in no condition to resist, and moreover knew resistance was useless. They jammed him in the jacket, pinned him tight to the wall, and throttled him in the collar. This collar, by a refinement of cruelty, was made with unbound edges, so that when the victim, exhausted with the cruel cramp that racked his aching bones in the fierce gripe of Hawes's infernal machine, sunk his heavy head and drooped his chin, the jagged collar sawed him directly and lacerating the flesh drove him away from even this miserable approach to ease. Robinson had formed no idea of the torture. The victims of the Inquisition would