breathing hard, a-snarl, the wiry little pickpocket.
Beyond, the gray high wall; and upon it, pacing slowly against a very blue sky, another guard, holding a rifle, loosely, like a hunter.
Six guards holding their rifles at him; three more holding drawn revolvers against three striped convicts; another guard on the wall—9009’s eyes suddenly narrowed to slits.
A resonant clash of steel upon steel broke the panting silence. The cell-house door had been closed. Again a metallic clang: the inner door had been shut. Then, muffled, a succession of dull slams, close one upon the other, that merged into a subdued roll as of thunder. The convicts within the cell-house were being locked up in their cells.
The six rifle-muzzles fell toward the ground; a footstep crunched behind; 9009 turned. It was Jennings.
The sallow face was heavy, expressionless; and the gray eyes were without light. One heavy hand, extending, grasped 9009’s shoulder;
