'Cigarette case, white metal, containing two cigarettes; watch, white metal; tie‑pin, fancy' ‑ it had cost Margot considerably more than the warder earned in a year, had he only known ‑ 'studs, bone, one pair; cufflinks, fancy, one pair. The officers looked doubtfully at Paul's gold cigar piercer, the gift of the best man. 'What's this 'ere?

'It's for cigars, said Paul.

'Not so much lip! said the warder, banging him on the top of his head with the pair of shoes he happened to be holding. 'Put it down as «instrument». That's the lot, he said, 'unless you've got false teeth. You're allowed to keep them, only we must make a note of it.

'No, said Paul.

'Truss or other surgical appliance?

'No, said Paul.

'All right! You can go to the bath.

Paul sat for the regulation ten minutes in the regulation nine inches of warm water ‑ which smelt reassuringly of disinfectant ‑ and then put on his prison dothes. The loss of his personal possessions gave him a curiously agreeable sense of irresponsibility.

'You look a treat, said Philbrick.

Next he saw the Medical Officer, who sat at a table covered with official forms.

'Name? said the Doctor.

'Pennyfeather.

'Have you at any time been detained in a mental home or similar institution? If so, give particulars.

'I was at Scone College, Oxford, for two years, said Paul.

The Doctor looked up for the first time. 'Don't you dare to make jokes here, my man, he said, 'or I'll soon have you in the straitjacket in less than no time.

'Sorry, said Paul.

'Don't speak to the Medical Officer unless to answer a question, said the warder at his elbow.

'Sorry, said Paul, unconsciously, and was banged on the head.

'Suffering from consumption or any contagious disease? asked the M.D.

'Not that I know of, said Paul.

'That's all, said the Doctor. 'I have certified you as capable of undergoing the usual descriptions of punishment as specified below, to wit, restraint of handcuffs, leg‑chains, cross‑irons, body‑belt, canvas dress, close confinement, No. 1 diet, No. 2 diet, birch‑rod, and cat‑o'-nine‑tails. Any complaint?

'But must I have all these at once? asked Paul, rather dismayed.

'You will if you ask impertinent questions. Look after that man, officer; he's obviously a troublesome character.

'Come 'ere, you, said the warder. They went up a passage and down two flights of iron steps. Long galleries with iron railings stretched out in each direction, giving access to innumerable doors. Wire‑netting was stretched between the landings. 'So don't you try no monkey-tricks. Suicide isn't allowed in this prison. See? said the warder. 'This is your cell. Keep it clean, or you'll know the reason why, and this is your number. He buttoned a yellow badge on to Paul's coat.

'Like a flag‑day, said Paul.

'Shut up, you- , remarked the warder, and locked the door.

'I suppose I shall learn to respect these people in time, thought Paul. 'They all seem so much less awe‑inspiring than anyone I ever met.

His next visit was from the Schoolmaster. The door was unlocked, and a seedy‑looking young man in a tweed suit came into the cell.

'Can you read and write, D.4.12? asked the newcomer.

'Yes, said Paul.

'Public or secondary education?

'Public, said Paul. His school had been rather sensitive on this subject.

'What was your standard when you left school?

'Well, I don't quite know. I don't think we had standards.

The Schoolmaster marked him down as 'Memory defective' on a form and went out. Presently he returned with a book.

'You must do your best with that for the next four weeks, he said. 'I'll try and get you into one of the morning classes. You won't find it difficult, if you can read fairly easily. You see, it begins there, he said helpfillly, showing Paul the first page.

It was an English Grammar published in 1872.

'A syllable is a single sound made by one simple effort of the voice, Paul read.

'Thank you, he said; 'I'm sure I shall find it useful.

'You can change it after four weeks if you can't get on with it, said the Schoolmaster. 'But I should stick to it, if you can.

Again the door was locked.

Next came the Chaplain. 'Here is your Bible and a book of devotion. The Bible stays in the cell always. You can change the book of devotion any week if you wish to. Are you Church of England? Services are voluntary — that is to say, you must either attend all or none. The Chaplain spoke in a nervous and hurried manner. He was new to his job, and he had already visited fifty prisoners that day, one of whom had delayed him for a long time with descriptions of a vision he had seen the night before.

'Hullo, Prendy! said Paul.

Mr Prendergast looked at him nervously. 'I didn't recognize you, he said. 'People look so much alike in those clothes. This is most disturbing, Pennyfeather. As soon as I saw you'd been convicted I was afraid they might send you here. Oh dear! oh dear! It makes everything still more difficult!

'What's the matter, Prendy? Doubts again?

'No, no, discipline, my old trouble. I've only been at the job a week. I was very lucky to get it. My bishop said he thought there was more opening for a Modern Churchman in this kind of work than in the parishes. The Governor is very modern too. But criminals are just as bad as boys, I find. They pretend to make confessions and tell me the most dreadful things just to see what I'll say, and in chapel they laugh so much that the warders spend all their time correcting them. It makes the services seem so irreverent. Several of them got put on No. 1 diet this morning for singing the wrong words to one of the hymns, and of course that only makes me more unpopular. Please, Pennyfeather, if you don't mind, you mustn't call me Prendy, and if anyone passes the cell will you stand up when you're talking to me. You're supposed to, you see, and the Chief Warder has said some very severe things to me about maintaining discipline.

At this moment the face of the warder appeared at the peephole in the door.

'I trust you realize the enormity of your offence and the justice of your punishment? said Mr Prendergast in a loud voice. 'Pray for penitence.

A warder came into the cell.

'Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I've got to take this one to see the Governor. There's D.4.18 down the way been asking for you for days. I said I'd tell you, only, if you'll forgive my saying so, I shouldn't be too soft with 'im, sir. We know 'im of old. 'E's a sly old devil, begging your pardon, sir, and 'e's only religious when 'e thinks it'll pay.

'I think that I am the person to decide that, officer, said Mr Prendergast with some dignity. 'You may take D.4.12 to the Governor.

Sir Wilfred Lucas‑Dockery had not been intended by nature or education for the Governor of a prison; his appointment was the idea of a Labour Home Secretary who had been impressed by an appendix on the theory of penology which he had contributed to a report on the treatment of 'Conscientious Objectors'. Up to that time Sir Wilfred had held the Chair of Sociology at a Midland university; only his intimate friends and a few specially favoured pupils knew that behind his mild and professional exterior he concealed an ardent ambition to serve in the public life of his generation. He stood twice for Parliament, but so diffidently that his candidature passed almost unnoticed. Colonel MacAdder, his predecessor in office, a veteran of numberless unrecorded carnpaigns on the Afghan frontier, had said to him on his retirement: 'Good luck, Sir Wilfred! If I may give you a piece of advice, it's this. Don't bother about the lower warders or the prisoners. Give hell to the man immediately below you, and you can rely on him to pass it on with interest. If you make a prison bad enough, people'll take jolly good care to keep out of it. That's been my policy all through, and I'm proud of it' (a policy which soon became quite famous in the society of Cheltenham Spa).