The
regular hours and the substitution of bread and water for his wonted
diet improved his health thirty per cent. It was mentally that he
suffered. His was one of those just-as-good cheap-substitute minds,
incapable of harbouring more than one idea at a time, and during those
sixty days of quiet seclusion it was filled with an ever-growing
resentment against Officer Keating. Every day, as he moved about his
appointed tasks, he brooded on his wrongs. Every night was to him but
the end of another day that kept him from settling down to the serious
business of Revenge. To be haled to prison for correcting a private
enemy with a sand-bag--that was what stung. In the privacy of his cell
he dwelt unceasingly on the necessity for revenge. The thing began to
take on to him the aspect almost of a Holy Mission, a sort of Crusade.
* * * * *
The days slipped by, bringing winter to Clerkenwell, and with it Mr.
Buffin. He returned to his old haunts one Friday night, thin but in
excellent condition. One of the first acquaintances he met was Officer
Keating. The policeman, who had a good memory for faces, recognised
him, and stopped.
"So you're out, young feller?" he said genially.
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