This was of a very primitive principle. There was a gap at the bottom of the door to let air in—the door in fact was made five inches too short—and over the shelf whereon the bedding and utensils were stowed, were some dozen round holes an inch or so in diameter, to let the air out. Each door had a peep-hole with a cover to it.
By the time Peace had completed his inspection the gangs came up, they made a rare clatter and noise, and it seemed to him that they took a delight in making as much disturbance as possible.
In the hall in which he was confined, there were about two hundred convicts, rough, coarse brutes, who, in many respects, resembled caged animals, who only wanted the opportunity to wreak their vengeance upon anyone who came in their way. But they were kept under control, and were so securely guarded that there was not much chance of them getting the upper hand of their janitors.
As each man entered his cell, he slammed the door as hard as he could to vent his spleen and spite upon it for his day’s hard and monotonous toil.
“There’s a nice lot of boys in here,” murmured Peace—“a set of savages, I fancy. Well, it does not much matter, I suppose, but I wish I was back at Preston.”
He had hardly given expression to this wish, when he heard a clatter of tins, which at first he could not make out; this was followed by a shouting between the warders below in the hall and those on the landings.
Presently he heard a warder shout out—
“Can’t you put out your tins and your brooms?”
Peace’s door was opened, and a dark-whiskered man peered in.
“Don’t you hear me?” he said.