of solidified beer, tacked towards them as the turnkey spoke.
“Now, wot’s all this?” inquired a voice to scale. “Wot for are you a-bringin’ noo boys here for? Recepshun ward’s the place for them; they’ve got no business ‘ere.”
“Well, them’s the orders, and this is a special case. It’s Erichsen!”
The wardsman opened his half-shut eyes, and blinked incredulity.
“Gerrout!” said he. “That kid? Pitch us another.”
“It’s right,” said the turnkey. “Committed this afternoon.”
“Well, I’m darned: you wouldn’t think it of ’im, now would yer?” asked the fuddled connoisseur, half-sobered by surprise. A slow, dim admiration glimmered in the clouded face like a rush-light in a yellow fog. “Why, Master Erichsen,” he continued, “I’m proud to have ye in my ward. We know all about you ’ere, and this is a proud day for Number Twelve. I’ll do my best to make ye at home.”
“An’ it all rests with he,” whispered the turnkey, taking his leave. “Pay you his dues, and you’ll do well.”
Tom had already glanced down the yard, and noted two prisoners playing pitch-and-toss at the far end; another sitting on a wet flag, back to wall, knees up, chin down, an abject picture; and a third, in tatters, drawing near, open-mouthed. He now turned abruptly to the wardsman.
“What’s this about dues?”
“On’y a little weekly trifle for the pore wardsman; nothing to hurt, Master Erichsen—”
“I double it if I don’t hear that name again!”
The man stared. “You are a noo boy, no error!”
