People skills were part of his stock-in-trade they were nearly the whole of it. He didn't say 'you bastards.' The warders had treated him quite civilly this past six weeks, and he made a point of getting on with people. 'Yes, there is that, sir, yes, there is that,' said the warder. 'Freedom? But there's a damn great stone through there!' He insists that all condemned prisoners should be offered the prospect of freedom.' 'You set this up, did you, Mr Wilkinson?' said Moist weakly, watching the glint of light on the spoon.
'Ron here owes me five dollars! I told him you were a sticker! He's a sticker, I said!' 'Well done, Mr Spangler!' said one of them. He turned his head, tendons twanging a little riff of agony, and saw several of the warders watching him through the bars. It was shiny.Īs he studied it, he heard the clapping behind him. Moist managed to ease it away from the hole and peered inside.Īt the far end was another block, and the mortar around it looked suspiciously strong and fresh. His shoulders caught fire and a red mist filled his vision but the block slid out, with a faint and inappropriate tinkling noise. Moist sat down facing the wall, gripped the iron ring in both hands, braced his legs against the stones on either side, and heaved. It was the large and heavy stone that was currently the object of his attentions, and at some point a huge staple had been hammered into it as an anchor for manacles. Fortunately, no one ever came to change the bedding here, or else they would have discovered the world's heaviest mattress. So far the work had taken him five weeks, and reduced the spoon to something like a nail file. To the world in general, and particularly on that bit of it known as the death warrant, he was Albert Spangler.Īnd he took a more positive approach to the situation and had concentrated his mind on the prospect of not being hanged in the morning, and most particularly on the prospect of removing all the crumbling mortar from around a stone in his cell wall with a spoon. The man going to be hanged had been named Moist von Lipwig by doting if unwise parents, but he was not going to embarrass the name, in so far as that was still possible, by being hung under it.
They say that the prospect of being hanged in the morning concentrates a man's mind wonderfully unfortunately, what the mind inevitably concentrates on is that it is in a body that, in the morning, is going to be hanged. In which our Hero experiences Hope, the Greatest Gift - The Bacon Sandwich of Regret - Sombre Reflections on Capital Punishment from the Hangman - Famous Last Words - Our Hero Dies - Angels, conversations about - Inadvisability of Misplaced Offers regarding Broomsticks - An Unexpected Ride - A World Free of Honest Men - A Man on the Hop - There is Always a Choice
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