Justin had now returned from down stairs, and the constable ordered him and another man to conduct us all below.
"Put 'em in number four an' five."
"Number four an' five it is!"
So we descended the stairs. Below, there was a brick-lined corridor, with three cells on each side. At the end a kerosene lamp hung in a bracket on the wall. This was the only light.
"Hullo!" said a cheerful voice, "how long did you get? Life- sentence?"
It was the man who called himself Sprague. His banjo stood against the wall just outside his cell, and under the lamp.
"No," said Mr. Daddles, "we're awaiting our trial in the morning, the same as you."
"What was your crime, anyway? Whistling?"
Justin shook his head at the man in the cell.
"You fellers better look out,—all on ye," said he. "Eb's pretty mad. An' he's got a bad temper when he gets riled, I tell you. An' folks are all stirred up about this burglin' business."