Some three years had slipped by when one day he asked me if I would prepare a petition which he might send to the Home Secretary in the hope of obtaining a commutation of sentence. I liked the youngster very well and readily consented, but told him that I doubted very much if he would get anything. The petition was sent, and in a few days the usual answer was returned, "No grounds." He told me of his ill luck, and I said to him: "Look here, so long as you send up whining petitions asking for mercy both you and they will be treated with contempt. If you wish to get that English gentleman in the Home Office to do anything for you, make him believe you are a millionaire; you will see whether he will do anything then for you or not." He laughed merrily at that. "A millionaire! Why, I haven't a sixpence. My father is only a private coachman at Tunbridge Wells." "That is nothing at all," I said; "if you will be guided by me, and let me manage things for you, I will have a petition sent in for you from the outside, and I feel sure we can get you out." An idea had just flashed into my mind, and I was eager to try it. At first he was a little timid about the venture, fearing that I might get him into trouble, but when he became convinced that I would do nothing of the kind he consented. I had a warder in the prison who in consideration of an occasional tip used to act as my postman, sending my letters to my friends and bringing in theirs to me. This was a deadly offense against the rules, but as the permitted correspondence was outrageously limited I saw no reason why I should deprive myself of letters when I had the chance to have them, and as I took good care that the great men in London should get no inkling of my misdeeds I dare say their hearts did not grieve after what their eyes did not see. CHAPTER XLVIII. HE TELEGRAPHED THE NEWS TO MY WARDER, AND BARTON WENT ON HIS WAY REJOICING.