Directly my gas was turned
out the method of solution flashed on my mind, and I was so vexed
at being unable to work it out immediately that it was hours before
I could fall asleep. During that time my brain made desperate but
futile efforts to reach the answer by mental arithmetic, and when
I woke in the morning I felt thoroughly fagged.
Having had no writing materials for two months the slate and pencil
looked very inviting. I composed a few pieces of verse, including
a sonnet on Giordano Bruno and some epigrams on Parson Plaford,
Judge North, Sir Hardinge Giffard, and other distasteful personages.
But as every piece written on the slate had to be rubbed out to make
room for the next, I soon sickened of composition. It was murdering
one bantling to make place for another.
Sometimes the dulness of my incarceration was relieved by overhearing
whispered conversations outside my cell door. Until we became well
known, there was considerable speculation among the prisoners as
to who we were, and what we were there for. One day a couple of
fellows, engaged in cleaning the corridor, worked themselves near
together, one standing on either side of my door. "Who's the bloke
in yer?" I heard queried. "Dunno," said the other, "I b'lieve he's
a Fenian." Another time I heard the answer, "Oh, he's one of Bradlaugh's
pals; and Bradlaugh's coming up next week"--a next week which happily
never arrived.
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