To Jim, accustomed from the day his dead mother's nipple had been taken from his toothless gums to having his own free will, the surly command came like a threat. He hesitated. "Will you come, you bit of carrion, or shall I fetch you?" Jim stood like a young lion at bay. His hands unconsciously drew up into fists; one foot moved forward; the prisoners stood in wondering groups, some recalling the day, five, ten, fifteen, aye, even fifty years before, when they, too, had thought of defence. They, too, had stood at bay. But they had learned the folly of it, and they knew Jim would learn too; but still they half hoped he would get in that one blow before the lesson began. Such fists! such strength! And he came on like a young tiger, his eyes ablaze, his nostrils quivering, his arm poised, his full chest expanding, perfectly aware the officer was feeling for the pistol at his belt, when, quick and noiseless, a small hand, white and delicate as a woman's, reached out and drew the clenched fist down; a soft voice, softened by despair, said: "It isn't any use; they'll down you at last, and you only make it harder." It was all done so quickly, the guards around had not had time "to draw," else the rebellious one had received the reward of rebellion. The warden replaced his pistol, with a curse upon it for not obeying his effort to draw it. The young convict had ceased hostilities, and stood submissive by the side of his unknown friend. He had not once glanced at him, but something in his voice had controlled and subdued his passion. "Away with him," cried the officer. "To the pump, and afterward to the pool. Get the straps ready there. We'll show our _royal_ friend who is master here." Again came an idea of resistance, but the same small hand was laid upon his arm. "My friend, it isn't any use. I tried it all. Go on and be punished. It is part of life here. You receive it whether merited or not." They dragged him off, strapped him, hand and foot, and writhing, foaming, like the untamed wild beast that he was, they thrust him under the great prison pump. "That will cool his royal blood," laughed a guard, as the fearful force of the cold current beating upon his shaven head knocked him senseless. Drenched and beaten, utterly exhausted, he lay like a limp rag, until three men had spent their strength upon the pump. Then to the pool they dragged him, and "ducked" him three times into the dark, stagnant water. Then back to the warden who asked if he "thought he had enough." "Not enough to make me take your jaw," was the foolish answer. "The lash," said the warden, and the miserable, half-drowned creature was taken away to be beaten "into subjection."