It may be imagined that the scouring-out of the zancas is a job for which labourers are not readily obtained.
Even the pelado turns up his nose at it, and the poorest proletarian will only undertake the task when starvation is staring him in the face. For it is not only dirty, but deemed degrading. It is, therefore, one of the travaux-forces which, as a matter of necessity, falls to the lot of the “gaol-bird.” Convicts are the scavengers; criminals sentenced to long periods of imprisonment, of whom there are often enough in the carceles of Mexico to clean out all the sewers in the country. Even by these it is a task looked upon with repugnance, and usually assigned to them as a punishment for prison derelictions. Not that they so much regard the dirt or the smells; it is the toil which offends them—the labour being hard, and often requiring to be done under a hot, broiling sun.
To see them is a spectacle of a rather curious kind, though repulsive. Coupled two and two—for the precaution is taken, and not unfrequently needed—to keep their leg-chains on; up in mud to the middle of their bodies, and above bespattered with it—such mud too! many of them with faces that, even when clean, are aught but nice to look at; their eyes now flashing fierce defiance, now bent down and sullen, they seem either at enmity or out of sorts with all mankind. Some among them, however, make light of it, bandy words with the passers-by, jest, laugh, sing, shout, and swear, which to a sensitive mind but makes the spectacle more sad.
All this understood, it may well be conceived with what anxiety Florence Kearney listened to that snatch of dialogue between Santander and the gaol-governor outside the cell. He did not even then quite comprehend the nature of what was intended for them. But the sharer of his chain did, who soon after made it all known to him, he passing the knowledge on to Cris Rock. So when, on the next morning, the governor again presented himself at the door of their cell, saying:
“Now, gentlemen, get ready to take a little exercise,”—they knew what sort of exercise was meant.
He, however, believing them ignorant of it—for he was not aware they had overheard his out-door speech with Santander, added ironically:
“It’s a special favour I’m going to give you—at the request of Señor Colonel Santander, who, as I’ve seen, takes a friendly interest in some of you. For your health’s sake, he has asked me to give you a turn upon the streets, which I trust you will enjoy and get benefit by.”
Don Pedro was a born joker, and felt conceit in his powers as a satirist. In the present instance his irony was shaftless, being understood.
The dwarf was the only one who deigned rejoinder.
“Ha, ha, ha!” he yelled in his wild unearthly way. “Turn upon the streets! That’s fine for you, Don Pedro. A turn under the streets—that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”