repeated, which was wholly meaningless in my ears then, but which I
knew afterwards to be 'Hoghton Towers.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Hawkyard. 'I think that sounds promising; I think
that sounds hopeful. And he can be put by himself in a ward, for a
night or two, you say?'

It seemed to be the police-officer who had said so; for it was he
who replied, Yes! It was he, too, who finally took me by the arm,
and walked me before him through the streets, into a whitewashed
room in a bare building, where I had a chair to sit in, a table to
sit at, an iron bedstead and good mattress to lie upon, and a rug
and blanket to cover me. Where I had enough to eat too, and was
shown how to clean the tin porringer in which it was conveyed to
me, until it was as good as a looking-glass. Here, likewise, I was
put in a bath, and had new clothes brought to me; and my old rags
were burnt, and I was camphored and vinegared and disinfected in a
variety of ways.

When all this was done, - I don't know in how many days or how few,
but it matters not, - Mr. Hawkyard stepped in at the door,
remaining close to it, and said, 'Go and stand against the opposite
wall, George Silverman. As far off as you can. That'll do. How
do you feel?'

I told him that I didn't feel cold, and didn't feel hungry, and
didn't feel thirsty. That was the whole round of human feelings,
as far as I knew, except the pain of being beaten.

'Well,' said he, 'you are going, George, to a healthy farm-house to