Robinson had now eight thousand turns of the crank per day, and very hard work he found it; but he preferred it to being buried alive all day in his cell; and warned by Josephs’ fate, he 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.