"Let me go this once, mister," he began to whine again.  "I'll not do it no more." 

 "Quiet, blast you," growled the large, rich voice of the police. 

 At last they came to a door, which in the uncertain light seemed exactly similar to one he had passed through on an occasion he would never forget to his dying day. He began to cry again miserably. Perhaps they would give him something to eat—they did so before—but he would not be able to eat anything this time if they offered it, not until they had done what they had to do. 

 He could hear sounds a little way off ... inside the prison. He gripped convulsively the rough overcoat of his captor. How vividly he remembered it all! They gave it two other boys first. Again he could hear their screams, again he could see the blood running down their bare legs. 

 He must try to be a man ... he remembered that one of the other boys had laughed about it afterwards ... he must try to be a man ... at least that had been the advice of a fatherly policeman in spectacles who had presided over the ceremony.... 

 "Mother ... that you..."  The terrific voice of his captor went right through him.  "Where are you, Mother? Show a light." 

 Suddenly a door at the end of the passage was flung open. There came a blinding gush of gaslight. 

 "Why, Job ... whatever...!" 

 "I'll set him on the sophy." 

 "Yes, on the sophy. Goodness gracious me!" 

 The boy realized that he was on a horsehair sofa, and that a fine, clean, handsome-looking lady was standing with her mouth open in front of him. 

 "Goodness gracious, Job!" 

 "Come all the way from Blackhampton in a truck this morning. By the 5:40 Express." 

 "Well, I'm blessed if I ever see such a hobject. I'll give him some tea and a bit o' bacon, and some bread and butter, and then I'll get some o' that mud off him." 

 "Some of it's blood," said the Foreman Shunter. 

 Prev. P 14/347 next