"Here's a fresh fish, Deputy," said the guard.
The deputy warden of the prison, Ball, flecked the ashes from his cigar.
"Back again, eh?" he said.
Archie stared, and then he said:
"I've never stirred before."
"The hell you haven't," said the deputy. "The bull con don't go in this dump! I know you all!" The receiving guard looked Archie over, trying to recall him.
The deputy warden let his heavy feet fall to the floor, leaned forward, took a cane from his desk, got up, hooked the cane into the awkward angle of his left elbow, and shambled into the rear office, his long legs unhinging with a strange suggestion of the lock-step he was so proud of being able to retain in the prison by an evasion of the law. A convict clerk heaved an enormous record on to his high desk, then in a mechanical way he dipped a pen into the ink, and stood waiting.
"What's your name?" asked the deputy.
Archie told him.
"Age?"