CHAPTER XVI
THE WARDEN'S THREAT
I
The dying sun grows pale with haze and fog. Slowly the dark-gray line undulates across the shop, and draws its sinuous length along the gloaming yard. The shadowy waves cleave the thickening mist, vibrate ghostlike, and are swallowed in the yawning blackness of the cell-house.
"Aleck, Aleck!" I hear an excited whisper behind me, "quick, plant it. The screw's goin' t' frisk[43] me."
Something small and hard is thrust into my coat pocket. The guard in front stops short, suspiciously scanning the passing men.
"Break ranks!"
The overseer approaches me. "You are wanted in the office, Berk."
The Warden, blear-eyed and sallow, frowns as I am led in.
"What have you got on you?" he demands, abruptly.