Cokeson.  No.  But it’s a pitiful sight.  He’s quite a young fellow.  I said to him:  “Before a month’s up” I said, “you’ll be out and about with the others; it’ll be a nice change for you.”  “A month!” he said —­like that!  “Come!” I said, “we mustn’t exaggerate.  What’s a month?  Why, it’s nothing!” “A day,” he said, “shut up in your cell thinking and brooding as I do, it’s longer than a year outside.  I can’t help it,” he said; “I try—­but I’m built that way, Mr. Cokeson.”  And, he held his hand up to his face.  I could see the tears trickling through his fingers.  It wasn’t nice.

The chaplain.  He’s a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes, isn’t he?  Not Church of England, I think?

Cokeson.  No.

The chaplain.  I know.

The governor. [To Wooder, who has come in] Ask the doctor to be good enough to come here for a minute. [Wooder salutes, and goes out] Let’s see, he’s not married?

Cokeson.  No. [Confidentially] But there’s a party he’s very much attached to, not altogether com-il-fa.  It’s a sad story.

The chaplain.  If it wasn’t for drink and women, sir, this prison might be closed.

Cokeson. [Looking at the chaplain over his spectacles] Ye-es, but I wanted to tell you about that, special.  He had hopes they’d have let her come and see him, but they haven’t.  Of course he asked me questions.  I did my best, but I couldn’t tell the poor young fellow a lie, with him in here—­seemed like hitting him.  But I’m afraid it’s made him worse.

The governor.  What was this news then?

Cokeson.  Like this.  The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a husband, and she’d left him.  Fact is, she was going away with our young friend.  It’s not nice—­but I’ve looked over it.  Well, when he was put in here she said she’d earn her living apart, and wait for him to come out.  That was a great consolation to him.  But after a month she came to me—­I don’t know her personally—­and she said:  “I can’t earn the children’s living, let alone my own—­I’ve got no friends.  I’m obliged to keep out of everybody’s way, else my husband’d get to know where I was.  I’m very much reduced,” she said.  And she has lost flesh.  “I’ll have to go in the workhouse!” It’s a painful story.  I said to her:  “No,” I said, “not that!  I’ve got a wife an’ family, but sooner than you should do that I’ll spare you a little myself.”  “Really,” she said—­she’s a nice creature—­“I don’t like to take it from you.  I think I’d better go back to my husband.”  Well, I know he’s a nahsty, spiteful feller—­drinks—­but I didn’t like to persuade her not to.

The chaplain.  Surely, no.

Cokeson.  Ye-es, but I’m sorry now; it’s upset the poor young fellow dreadfully.  And what I wanted to say was:  He’s got his three years to serve.  I want things to be pleasant for him.