When he found himself in his cell again he had no recollection of how he had got there; and the warder had to repeat his sharp command, “Put on these clothes,” before he could get him to understand that he was to exchange his garments for the prison suit that lay before him.  It was a small matter, but it brought home to him the reality of his situation more than any thing that had yet occurred.  With the deprivation of his clothes he seemed to be deprived of his individuality, and, in adopting that shameful dress, to become an atom in a congeries of outcasts.  From henceforth he was not even to bear a name, but must become a number—­a unit of that great sum of scoundrels which the world was so willing to forget.  That he was to suffer under a system which had authority and right for its basis made his case no less intolerable to him; he felt like one suddenly seized and sold into slavery.  That his master and tyrant was called the Law was no mitigation of his calamity; nay, it was an aggravation, since he could not cut its throat.

“It is no use, young fellow,” said the warder, coolly, as Richard looked at him like some hunted beast at bay.  “If you was to kill me and a dozen more it would do you not a morsel of good; the law has got you tight, and it’s better to be quiet.”

Richard uttered a low moan, more woeful than any cry of physical anguish.  It touched his jailer, used as he was to the contemplation of human misery.  “Look here,” said he; “you keep up a good heart, and get as many V G’s as you can.  Then you’ll get out on ticket-of-leave in fifteen years:  it ain’t as if you were a lifer.”

He meant it for consolation; but this unvarnished statement of the very best that could by possibility befall poor Richard seemed only to deepen his despondency.

“Why, when you’ve done it,” pursued the warder, “you’ll be quite a young man still—­younger than I am.  There’s Balfour, now; he’s got some call to be down in the mouth, for he’ll get it as hot as you, and he’s an old un, yet he’s cheery enough up yonder”—­and he jerked his head in the direction of the court-house—­“you may take your ’davey he is.  You get V G’s.”

“What are those?” said Richard, wearily.

“Why, the best marks that can be got; and remember that every one of ’em goes to shorten your time.  You must be handier with your room, to begin with.  You might be reported by some officers for the way in which that hammock is folded, and then away go your marks at once; and you must learn to sweep your room out cleaner.  We couldn’t stand that in one of our regulars, you know;” and he pointed to some specks of dust upon the shining floor.  “As for the oakum pickings which will be set you to-morrow, I’ll show you the great secret of that art.  Your fingers will suffer a bit at first, no doubt, but you’ll be a clever one at it before long.  Only buckle to, and keep a civil tongue in your head, young fellow, and you’ll do.”