And how many of us, in the case of a crime against
property--and though the property be public and ours--would refuse
tucker to the hunted man, and a night's shelter from the pouring rain
and the scowling, haunting, threatening, and terrifying darkness? Or
show the police in the morning the track the poor wretch had taken? I
know I couldn't.
The Heart of Man says: Thou shalt not.
At country railway stations, where the trains stop for refreshments,
when a prisoner goes up or down in charge of a policeman, a native
delicacy prevents the local loafers from seeming to notice him; but at
the last moment there is always some hand to thrust in a clay pipe and
cake of tobacco, and maybe a bag of sandwiches to the policeman.
And, when a prisoner escapes, in the country at least--unless he be a
criminal maniac in for a serious offence, and therefore a real danger
to society--we all honestly hope that they won't catch him, and we
don't hide it. And, if put in a corner, most of us would help them
not to catch him.
The thing came down through the ages and survived through the dark
Middle Ages, as all good things come down through the ages and survive
through the blackest ages. The hunted man in the tree, or cave, or
hole, and strangers creeping to him with food in the darkness, and in
fear and trembling; though he was, as often happened, an enemy to
their creed, country, or party. For he was outcast, and hungry, and a
wanderer whom men sought to kill.
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