"I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor shall I do so, unless I'm compelled. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. What they do with him afterward is off my ticket, no concern of James Boyle; they can lock him up or let him go. You see, we guys bump up against so much of the seamy side that we look upon everybody as guilty until proved innocent, which is hind-side-to. I’ve made up my mind.
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