He found, upon entering the cell in question, that it contained another occupant besides himself.
His companion in misfortune was a tall, slim young man, apparently twenty or thereabouts. In appearance he was what some persons would call genteel; certainly there did not appear to be anything of the ruffian about him.
Peace regarded him with a searching glance, but did not offer any observation.
To say the truth, he was miserably depressed. Every bone in his body ached, his temples still throbbed, and the bumps on his head were as sore and troublesome as they well could be.
Presently the young man—whose name was Green—addressed Peace.
“What are you up for?” said Mr. Green. This being a slang expression for “What are you charged with?”
“I don’t know at present,” answered Peace, sulkily. “What are you up for?”
“Slinging my book”—a professional term for picking pockets—“but I’m as innocent as the babe unborn,” added Mr. Green.
“Oh, of course,” returned Peace; “so am I.”
Mr. Green whistled and looked up at the roof of the cell.