They must not scrape their feet against the floor without having afterwards to explain the reason of such a movement. They may scarcely wink an eye, cough, or make any noise without danger of rebuke or punishment.
It is a terrible and humiliating state of servitude these miserably guilty creatures have to endure, but with all this it does not seem to deter them from the commission of crime, for many, as soon as they are released, have recourse to their old practices until they are again caught, and sentenced to another and longer term of imprisonment.
Peace began to be weary of his monotonous life. One morning he said to the under turnkey.
“I say, my friend, how long am I to be cooped up in this cheerful little abode—not the whole of the time, I hope?”
“Prisoners are not permitted to talk out of hours,” said the turnkey, looking straight before him, but not at his questioner.
“Ah! I beg your pardon, guv’nor; meant no offence.”
The turnkey, whose name was Wilson, looked hard at the prisoner, and seemed lost in thought.
Peace felt a little uncomfortable. Perhaps the man would report him to the governor.
“I beg your pardon again; I hope I’ve not offended you.”
The man shook his head and walked away.