mouth at six. When they
crossed the strip of sea, the best of the day was gone, and a fresh
breeze blew across the breakwater.

The Saxon walls of the castle at the foot of the Vern Hill reflected the
chill blue of the water; but far above, where the rocky coast dipped to
the beach, the yellow stone, with the bluish clay in its crevices, shone
in the glow of the sinking sun.

Hugh Ritson and his companion put up for the night at the Portland Arms
Inn. A ruddy, round-faced man in middle life, clean shaven and dressed
youthfully, was smoking in the parlor. He exchanged a salutation with
the cordiality of one who was nothing loath for a chat; then he picked
up the old Reeve staff, and explained the ancient method of computing
tithes. But Hugh Ritson was in no humor for conversation, and after
dinner he set out for a solitary walk. He took the road that turns from
the beach through the villages of Chiswell and Fortune's Well. When he
reached the top of the hill the sea lay around him; and beneath him, to
the right and left of the summit, were the quarries where the convicts
labored, with two branches of an inclined railway leading down to the
breakwater. On the summit itself, known as the Grove, was a long, high
granite wall, with a broad gate-way, and the lancet lights of a lodge at
one side of it. This was the convict prison, and the three or four
houses in front of it were the residences of governor, chaplain, and
chief warder. A cordon of cottages at a little distance were the homes
of the assistant warders. There were a few shops amid this little group
of cottages, and one public house, the Spotted Dog.

Hugh Ritson strolled into the tavern and sat down in a little
"snuggery," which was separated from a similar apartment by a wooden
partition that stood no higher than a tall man's height, and left a
space between the top stile and the ceiling. A company of men gossiped
at the other side of the partition.

"Talk of B 2001," said a guttural voice (Hugh Ritson started at the
sound), "I took the stiff'ning out of him first go off. When he'd done
he separates and come on from the moor; I saw he wasn't an old lag, so
says I to 'im, 'Green 'un,' I says, 'if you're leary, you'll fetch a
easy lagging, and if you're not, it'll be bellows to mend with you.'
'What d'ye mean?' he says. 'It's bloomin' 'ard work here,' I says, 'and
maybe you don't get shin-of-beef soup to do it on. Bread and water, for
a word,' I says. 'You're in