The selection of those articles took some time, and while it was going on the warders were operating upon the men’s heads and beards.
Peace and his companions had their hair cropped as close as scissors could make it. The cropping at Dartmoor is a sort of mania with the officials, who delight in denuding the men of their hair, and making them look as much like convicts as possible.
When all were supplied with clothes they were called in, a few at a time, and each newcomer received a new register number and a small card, a small brush, a comb, and a towel.
Those who required spectacles were desired to give their names to be submitted to the prison surgeon. As each batch was finished off and received their register number and ticket, they were marched away to their respective prisons and wards.
Peace felt very much depressed, and would have given anything to be back in his old quarters. He felt assured that his life at Dartmoor would be a wretched one.
Just as he and some half-dozen others arrived outside in the yard, the warder told them to stand in a line against the wall.
“What is this caper for?” whispered our hero to a companion.
“Silence!” exclaimed the prison official. “Prisoners are not allowed to talk.”
The tramp, tramp of many feet was now heard. The outside gang were returning from work. They came on in long lines, two abreast, each gang with its officers in military style, and keeping excellent step and time, but the men looked desponding and careworn.
Poor wretches, there was good reason for this. The work upon which they had been engaged was arduous enough, and in addition to this the ground under foot was little better than a dismal swamp.