more than a “place of punishment,” must still like his prisoners and the rest of us have some excitement to keep him from going dead.  What more natural than that such a nature should find its excitement in tormenting, and that by degrees this excitement should become first a habit then a need?  Growth is the nature of habit, not of one sort or another but of all—­even of an unnatural habit.  Gin grows on a man—­charity grows on a man—­tobacco grows on a man—­blood grows on a man.

At a period of the Reign of Terror the Parisians got to find a day weary without the guillotine.  If by some immense fortuity there came a day when they were not sprinkled with innocent blood the poor souls s’ennuyaient.  This was not so much thirst for any particular liquid as the habit of excitement.  Some months before, dancing, theaters, boulevard, etc., would have made shift to amuse these same hearts, as they did some months after when the red habit was worn out.  Torture had grown upon stupid, earnest Hawes; it seasoned that white of egg, a mindless existence.

Oh! how dull he felt these three deplorable days, barren of groans, and white faces, and livid lips, and fellow-creatures shamming,* and the bucket.

A generic term for swooning, or sickening, or going mad, in a prison.

Mr. Hawes had given a sulky order that the infirmary should be prepared for the sick, and now on the afternoon of the third day the surgeon had met him there by appointment.

“Will they get well any quicker here?” asked Hawes ironically.

“Why, certainly,” replied the other.

Hawes gave a dissatisfied grunt.

“I hate moving prisoners out of the cells; but I suppose I shall get you into trouble if I don’t.”

“Indeed!” said. the other, with an inquiring air; “how?”

“Parson threatens you very hard for letting the sick ones lie in their cells,” said Hawes slyly.  “But never mind, old boy—­I shall stand your friend and the justices mine.  We shall beat him yet,” said Hawes, assuming a firmness he did not feel lest this man should fall away from him and perhaps bear witness against him.

“I think you have beat him already,” replied the other calmly.

“What do you mean?”

“I have just come from Mr. Eden.  He sent for me.”

“What, isn’t he well?”

“I wish he’d die!  But there is no chance of that.”

“Well, there is always a chance of a man dying who has got a bilious fever.”

“Why you don’t mean he is seriously ill?” cried Hawes in excitement.

“I don’t say that, but he has got a sharp attack.”

Mr. Hawes examined the speaker’s face.  It was as legible as a book from the outside.  He went from the subject to one or two indifferent matters, but he could not keep long from what was uppermost.

“Sawyer,” said he, “you and I have always been good friends.”

“Yes, Mr. Hawes.”