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Updated: May 16, 2025
"Come, my birds," shouted Hodges roughly to the women. "Stand clear, we want this gear." "What do you want of it, Mr. Hodges?" "Only to put it outside the prison-gate, sir. That is the order." The printing-press, representative of knowledge, enemy of darkness, stupidity, cruelty; organ of civilization was ignominiously thrust to the door. This feat performed, they went to attack anti-theft.
The sight of all the good he was doing by teaching the sweets of anti-theft was always a cordial to him. Almost the last cell he visited was Thomas Robinson's. The man had been fretting and worrying himself to know why he did not come before.
Here industry was relished with a gusto inconceivable to those who have never stagnated body and soul in enforced solitude and silence. Here for the time at least were honest converts to anti-theft. He had seen them dull and stupid, brutalized, drifting like inanimate bodies on the heavy waters of the Dead Sea. He had drawn them ashore and put life into them.
The prisoners ate prisoner-grown corn and meat, wore prisoner-made clothes and bedding, wire lighted by gas made in the prison, etc., etc., etc., etc. The agricultural laborers had out-door work suited to their future destiny, and mechanical trades were zealously ransacked for the city rogues. Anti-theft reigned triumphant. No idleness, no wicked waste of sweat.
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