such as he. They were the chain-gang, and they were Bad—made so by Rum. I knew that they were brought out of the calaboose, that damp, dark place under the roof of the market-house, somewhere between the office of the mayor and the headquarters of the fire department; and glimpses were to be caught now and then of their faces pressed against those bars.
When, under the shade of the broad eaves, we were about to enter the mayor's office, my grandfather motioned to the prisoner out there in the center of the Square, who with a new alacrity dropped his broom, picked up his ball, and lugging it in his arms, came up close to us, so very close that I could see the sweat that drenched his forehead, stood in great beads on his upper lip, matted the hair on his forearms, stained with dark splashes his old shirt, and glistened on his throat and breast, burned red by the sun. He dropped his ball, took off that rag of a hat, raised eyelids that were powdered with dust, and looked at my grandfather.
"How many days did I give you?" my grandfather asked him.
"Fifteen, your honor," he said.
"How long have you been in?"
"Three days, your honor."
"Are you the only one in there?"
"Yes, your honor."
My grandfather paused and looked at him.
"Pretty hot out there, isn't it?" asked my grandfather.
