face, his head, his whole body moved about them. When he stooped to his own basket, his face was turned up; when he reached above into the red-striped man’s basket, his face was turned down; always, whatever might be the position of his body, his eyes, fixed, were upon the red-striped convict, standing there, motionless and impenetrable.
Once the garotter, groping for the upper basket, had dropped the shuttle into the loom, tearing the warp. The red-striped convict had rushed toward one of the pillars, to press the button signalling for the stopping of the machinery; and to the brusque movement, the garotter had shrunk back and cried aloud. Jennings had smiled.
The yellow square of sunshine had reached the wall to 9009’s left, now, and was beginning to climb it; in a few moments the Scotchman would press the button which stopped the machinery. Then 9009 would march back with his fellows to the dining-hall, and he would have passed his one-hundred-and-eighty-fifth day still
