eep your cell clean." "Yes," I rejoined, "and I _do_ keep it
clean for my own sake; but your blacklead is _dirt_." That ended the
conversation, and the blacklead question was never agitated again,
although once or twice, during my absence from the cell, the obnoxious
stuff was put on the floor and polished up by one of the cleaners.
Let me add that in the new cells the floors are all boarded, and the
blacklead nuisance is there unknown.

While I was meditating on my luxurious surroundings, the warder entered
again with a prisoner, who carried a bag. "Well, Mr. Foote," said the
genial officer, "how are you getting on? I've brought you some work. It
isn't hard, and you needn't task yourself; you'll find it help to pass
away the time." Some of the contents of the bag were then emptied on the
floor. They consisted of fibre-rope clipped into short lengths. These
had to be picked abroad. The work was light, but very monotonous. It did
help to kill time, and it was less troublesome than picking oakum.
Mr. Truelove tells me that they made him pick oakum in prison till
his fingers were raw, and laughed at him for complaining. He was then
seventy years old! Think of it, reader, and reflect on the tender
mercies of the religion of charity.

During my imprisonment I never worked at anything but fibre-picking.
Gladly would I have wheeled a barrow in the open air, but that is a
privilege reserved for felons; misdemeanants are locked up in their
cells night and day. Once there was an attempt made to instruct me in
the art of brush-making, but it egregiously failed. An officer from the
D wing, where the mats and brushes are made, opened my cell door one
afternoon, and shouted, "Come along!" "Where?" I asked, not liking his
manner. "Where!" he ejaculated, "Come along." "Thank you," I said, "but
you must please tell me where." He was very much annoyed by my freezing
civility, which I always found the best represser of impertinence;
but recognising his mistake, he changed his tone, and vouchsafed an
explanation. "The Governor," he said, "wants you to come and see how
brushes are made." "Oh, of course," I said, and marched after him.

Arriving at the D wing, I was silently introduced to a prisoner sitting
on a stool, who had been brought out of his cell to give me lessons
in brush-making. He worked and I watched. Presently the officer had to
attend to some other business a few yards off. Directly his back was
turned the prisoner eagerly