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 whispered,
"How long are ye doin'?" I told him. "I'm doin' fifteen months,"
he confidingly said. Then he added, with look half positive and
half interrogative, "Time's damned long, ain't it?" I agreed.
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