“My dear Pat - It seems that you are still in the hospital, so I’m writing to say I am very sorry for you. Life here is certainly not much to boast of, but at least I can use my arms and legs, and I sometimes have to work them so hard that I almost envy you lying in bed! My three months will soon be up and I won’t be sorry. The company here does not please me; some of them are pretty low down. This is not to say that I’m much good myself, but you know, some people really disgust one. Perhaps I’ve improved here, after all! The boss is a marvel; he knows how to take us. I wonder - if anyone had talked to me like that sooner - years ago - there are some things I’d never have done. I am not a bit keen on going home. I’d like to be apprenticed to a gardener. We work out of doors all day here, and it suits me fine; being in the open air is far better than factory work. Cyril has escaped for the second time, and hasn’t been caught yet; he may be out of the country. It is a pity; it would have been much better if he had waited patiently. Three months soon pass.
The other night someone said to us: “A group of young people are coming to sing you some hymns.” We were mustered in the great hall, expecting to spend an hour of boredom. I am not musical, and religion never interested me. Well! I never heard anything like it; those people sang so as to stir one to the core. One of them said a few words. Even our worst fellows were quiet. One felt that he really believed what he spoke of. To hear him, God is not so far away. It seemed that He loves each one of us and is concerned about all the details of our life. I’d never have thought that! And he advised us to read the Bible. I’m not like you and Simon; reading doesn’t appeal to me! But I found some good words like those we heard that night, and it was easier to read a bit.
I’ve never written such a long letter in my life! Please reply as soon as possible.
Yours—Bob.”
Patrick folded up the letter. He was feeling very lonely. Charlie and Andrew had gone home; the two younger boys were having their first outing in the grounds. His only companion was a small boy, not quite conscious after an operation, and moaning a little. The bright March sunshine casting shadows on the white wall, together with a light cool breeze filled the prisoner with a mad desire to jump out of the window and get away, to drink in the joyous springtime in the awakening countryside. He thought he heard a slight knock at the door of the ward; then it opened. First the head, then the whole person of Mr. Mollett, enveloped in an ample coat, advanced towards him. Patrick lay petrified under the piercing scrutiny of the bright eyes bent on him. Silently they gazed at each other. The florist found it difficult to recognize his one-time errand boy in that sickly lad whose face looked as white as the sheets. At last Patrick murmured with stiff lips: “Sir, do please forgive me. I didn’t know that the van belonged to you. I would never have joined in doing you such a bad turn if I’d known.”
“Whether it was me or anyone else is no matter! You plead a very poor excuse, my friend! It was stealing, just the same.”
Patrick lay, ashamed and silent.
“I haven’t come to reproach you,” went on the hunchback gently. “Do you know what brings me here?”
“No, sir.”
“Well! I’ve come to tell you that I have forgiven you. It wasn’t easy, you can guess. One day I said to myself, Those boys acting so foolishly on New Year’s Day are more to be pitied than blamed. And then, I must admit, the loss of my van has brought me good!”
“What’s that you say?” exclaimed Patrick.
“Yes, I am in my senses, my friend. I was too proud of that van, I thought of nothing else. I was neglecting to read my Bible. God had told me, `Isidor, keep yourself from idols.’ So He took it from me. He has done well. Only now,” added the good man shaking his head, “I must have an apprentice. With my rheumatism I can no longer deliver to the houses.”
“Is the minivan quite smashed up?” asked Patrick timidly: “We ought to replace it.”
“There is no question of that. I am giving the orders! It shall not be said that several families lack bread so that Isidor Mollett may ride in a car. I have sold its remains and resolved to start saving up again. I have already told the police that I don’t intend to prosecute.”
“Sir!” said Patrick earnestly, “if I were not chained here, I’d work my hardest at your place after school, to help pay my debt to you; you see it’s impossible, but I’ve had a letter from one of my pals who is longing to be apprenticed to a gardener. He is called Bob Round; he is 16. In spite of what we did he is not a bad fellow.”
“Where is he?” asked the florist guardedly.
“At the Remand Correctional School, but he’ll soon be out. Wait! Read this letter!” Mr. Mollett took out his spectacles from a well-worn case and began to read attentively. As he went on, his expression brightened.
“I shall go and see his father,” said he, returning the letter to Patrick. “Give me his address. This boy will be my concern. I’ll go there immediately.” In spite of his rheumatism the little man sprang to his feet, bid Patrick a friendly farewell and disappeared. After the door had closed, Patrick noticed on the floor beside his bed a pot of spring flowers; a bright pink hyacinth, with sweet-scented violets and starry primulas. He had never had a gift that pleased him so much!