He glanced at the wound, which still presented an angry appearance. “The bath won’t hurt you. There is no necessity for you to immerse your chest or shoulders in the water. In my opinion you will be better for it.” “All right,” returned Gregson; “you shall have your way. I’m not one to make things disagreeable.” And forthwith he jumped in. The governor paced the corridor for the next ten minutes or so under pretence of superintending the arrangements of the prisoners’ dinners, which ascended from the kitchen on a great tray by means of mysterious machinery. On his return he called another turnkey, and ordered him to have the prisoner’s clothes brushed and cleaned. “You have got plenty of money,” he said to Gregson. “You are suffering from a severe wound. We don’t wish to deal harshly with you.” “I’m much obliged, I’m sure,” returned the Badger. The governor took no notice of this last observation, which, to say the truth, was half conciliatory and half sarcastic. “We will therefore allow you to wear your own clothes, and to procure your own meals from an eating-house if you prefer it.” “Yes, I do prefer it, if it makes no difference.” “So be it, then. You will see by the printed copy of the rules which is hung up in every cell that you are not allowed more than one pint of wine or one quart of malt liquor daily, and that, if you undertake to board yourself, you must do so altogether. Besides this you will be allowed books to read and paper to write upon, and other little comforts, under my supervision, as I have no desire to treat you with unnecessary severity during the brief period that will elapse while you are awaiting your trial. I hope you will conduct yourself in a proper and becoming manner.” The cracksman nodded, and seemed by his demeanour to appreciate the lenity which the governor displayed. “You are very good, sir, I’m sure,” he muttered. “I wish all gentlemen in your position were equally kind and merciful.” The governor bowed in a dignified manner, and then left the cell. The turnkey returned with Gregson’s clothes, and stood by him as he dressed. He was then conducted to Cell No. 15. There they showed him how to ring the bell, how to pull the slide from the grating when he wanted fresh air, and how to manage the water taps and the bed furniture. They also informed him that when he wanted anything from the town there was a prison servant attached to the establishment whose office it was to run errands for the prisoners who were waiting for trial. The turnkeys made these explanations with a courteous accent, for turnkeys have a sort of veneration for great criminals. And Ned Gregson, in this respect, was a man of mark. The prison officials went out of the cell backwards, as if they were retiring from a royal presence; they locked the door with an ostentatious noise that they might thereby strike a wholesome awe into the mind of their prisoner.