Bill handed over the keys without a word.
“Zeppi,” Tom ordered, “trot up to the barracks. Let that fool Diego loose and bring them things here.” He tossed him the keys and Zeppi hurried away.
“You men,” continued Tom, “go back to the cells with Tony and bring out them guys. Not old man Bolton, remember. Martinengo ain’t sendin’ him along with this batch. Take ’em out the back way and line ’em up in the road till I come. That’s all—beat it!”
Tony and the detail trooped into the corridor, closing the door behind them. Tom ejected a stream of tobacco juice on to the floor.
“I don’t know as how I can blame yer,” he said to Bill. “You’re in a bad way, kid, and I reckon you know it.”
“What about my father? Will Martinengo have it in for him because I tried to get away?”
“Naw—the boss is hot on discipline, but he’ll enjoy the joke, seeing as how nobody except Diego is the worse for it. That mug is sure to have a sweet time explaining but youse two won’t get strafed. The workin’s is bad enough punishment. He’ll let it go at that.”
“What are these workings you’re all talking about, Tom?”
The man shook his head. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he returned evasively. “Here comes Zeppi. Orders is orders, and you gotta get into that hardware.”
Bill was handcuffed and his ankles were locked into iron bands on either end of a short chain. This made walking possible, but scarcely comfortable, since he could not take a step over a foot in length. He shuffled out of the jail, accompanied by Tom and Zeppi, to find a group of twelve men in chains like himself, lined up by the roadside. Tom gave the word and the party and its guard filed off down the road toward the harbor.