Round and round the yard in Indian file, some three yards apart, did the prisoners march for nearly an hour.
Two warders were there to keep order, and check any talking between the prisoners, but a few chance observations such as we have recorded did at times take place, despite the warders’ surveillance.
“Oh, strike me lucky, but the old un has a pretty mug of his own,” said the pickpocket, as he caught sight of Peace’s profile.
“Now then, no talking,” said one of the warders.
“I vasn’t a speakin’,” cried the pickpocket.
“It was you who spoke, and if you do it again I’ll report you,” said the prison official.
“Vell, all I sed vas, vat a beautiful old genelman I’ve got in front of me. There aint any harm in that, I s’pose.”
“You hold your tongue. Do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear. Vell I’m blest. A cove musn’t even open his mouth to get a breath of fresh air.”
“Silence.”