belong there, and they did not belong together. Each convict was supposed to take his place in line by standing in front of his own cell; their proper places were somewhere near the middle of the line, and apart from each other. But here they now stood before 9009, close to the head of the line, and together—Miller, the pickpocket, the burglar, and Nichols, in this order. And their heads were bowed toward the floor in involuntary attitudes of deprecation; and from their faces oozed a slanting expression that recalled to 9009 the red-striped convict of the jute-mill waiting at his loom for the garotter.
The guard in charge—a grizzled old blue-eyed fellow who had lived most of his life in prison—wearily saw the line formed, then shuffling on his rheumatic legs to the door at the foot of the corridor, he opened it, and the line began to flow slowly through it into the outer corridor. Leaning against the wall, he let it crawl by till its head was halfway down the long, narrow way, then walked on along its side, briskly, to intercept it at the second door, a steel-barred
