The process of Pippin's conversion--to call it that; the chaplain sought for a better word, rejecting in turn a dozen or more--had been the happiest episode of the two years. Plenty of good and cheerful and hopeful things, but that--what _had_ it been like? Chipping off the baked ashes--in Herculaneum, say--and coming upon the lucid marble of some perfect statue? No! A statue was after all a statue, and could give back no warmth. Mining, then, in dark and cold and foul air--poor boys! there was so much good in the worst of them, though!--and finding a vein of virgin gold--No! Gold was nothing but gold, after all. What--Ah! Here it was! Fumbling with the keys of an organ in the dark, feeling about, waking here a mutter, there a discord, there again a shriek--till suddenly one struck the true chord and the music broke out like sunlight--Or wasn't it after all just that, just sunlight, breaking from a cloud-- "Come in!" the chair was brought hastily to its normal position. A guard touched his cap in the doorway. "Beg pardon, sir, but French Bill has broke loose. Keeper said you was to be told--" The chaplain was on his feet in an instant. "What has happened? Tell me as we go along!" "Fell foul of Tom Packard with his bucket, and mauled him consid'able. I've been lookin' for it these two days. Tom was waitin' at his table, and Bill thought he give him a small egg o' purpose." "Dear me, sirs! Who is with him now?" The guard chuckled. "There's no one _with_ him! Anybody wouldn't be very comf'table there just now. Jones is handy by, lookin' after him. You can hear him now!" They could. A muffled roar, rising now and then into a bellow. As they drew nearer, the roar became articulate, and resolved itself into a sustained and passionate request for the blood, liver, and other vital adjuncts of Thomas Packard. "Lemmegetaholdofhim--lemmegetaholdofhim!" Coming down B corridor the clamor was deafening, echoed back from side to side of the narrow passage; accompanied moreover by banging of fists, kicking of feet against iron bars. The chaplain sighed and longed for Pippin. Nobody could manage Bill like Pippin. He usually knocked him down and sat on his chest singing "Onward, Christian Soldiers!" till the fit was over. There wasn't a mite of harm in Bill, Pippin always maintained, only he was nervous, and come to get worked up, he b'iled right over. The other inmates of B corridor were listening to the uproar, some laughing, others sympathizing with Bill or Tom, as the case might be. Opposite the grated door of the cell a turnkey leaned against the wall, a stolid, unmoved figure. "Here comes chaplain!" the murmur ran from cell to cell; and every face was pressed eagerly against the grating. "Here's chaplain! Chaplain'll sort him!"