radeship growing up between us,
which is not lessened by the discovery that we both like fresh air and
exercise. Poor fellow! he gets little enough of either. The forty minutes
spent in the vigorous tugs of war with the coal cars start an agreeable
glow of health and spirits in both of us.

After the coal job is finished I am for going back at once to the shop,
which is close at hand, but Murphy halts me again. "Hold on, Brown, we
can't go back just yet." It seems that we must again line up and be
counted; then we are escorted by the officer temporarily in charge of us
back into the shop, where we are once more counted before we return to our
regular places.

In order to make up for lost time Murphy and I work steadily on our basket
bottoms; he suggesting that we each watch the other's work, to see whether
we are keeping the sides even. A mistake is easier to notice across the
table than in your own work closer at hand. My fault seems to be to pull
the withes too tight, making the sides somewhat concave; while Murphy has
just the opposite fault--he makes his sides too convex. So I watch his
work and he watches mine, and all things go on very agreeably.

At one stage in the morning's proceedings I forget where I am, for the
moment, and begin to whistle; but a swift and warning look from Murphy
startles me into silence.

"Look out," he warns me, "whistling's not allowed. You'll get punished if
you ain't careful."

"Is a whistling prisoner worse than a whistling girl?" I ask; but I see
that my partner is not acquainted with the proverb, so I repeat it to him:

"Whistling girls, like crowing hens,
Always come to some bad ends."

He is much amused at this sentiment, despite its imperfect rhyme, and asks
me to repeat it so that he can learn it.

As we are working busily away, I perceive a sudden commotion over at the
western end of the shop. One of the poor old prisoners, those mournful
wrecks of humanity of which our company has its full share, has fainted,
and lies cold and white on the stone floor. It is pleasant to see how
tenderly those about him go to his help, raise the poor old fellow, seat
him in one of the rough chairs--the best the shop affords--and bathe his
forehead with cold water. It is also pleasant to hear the words of
sympathy which are passed along from one to another.

In due time a litter is brought; the pitiful fragment of humanity is
placed gently upon it, and is carried out of the shop in