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The cells measured eight feet by five, and, had no lighting apparatus except a tiny, barred window high up in the wall, and a spyhole in the door.There were no bugs, and we had bedsteads and straw palliasses, rare luxuries both.Then the Tramp Major served us with three cotton blankets each, and drove us off to our cells for the night.The doors were locked on the outside a little before seven in the evening, and would stay locked for the next twelve hours.What talk there was ran on the Tramp Major of this spike.He was a devil, everyone agreed, a tartar, a tyrant, a bawling, blasphemous, uncharitable dog.Littered on the grass, we seemed dingy, urban riff-raff.We defiled the scene, like sardine-tins and paper bags on the seashore.
It was a gloomy, chilly, limewashed place, consisting only of a bathroom and dining-room and about a hundred narrow stone cells.You couldn't call your soul your own when he was about, and many a tramp had he kicked out in the middle of the night for giving a back answer.When You, came to be searched, he fair held you upside down and shook you. Pay, and if you went in with money (which is against the law) God help you. 'For the love of Christ, mate,' the old hands advised me, 'don't you take it in.We stuffed our ankles with contraband until anyone seeing us might have imagined an outbreak of elephantiasis.But is an unwritten law that even the sternest Tramp Majors do not search below the knee, and in the end only one man was caught.