As the line emerged from the jute-mill, 9009, who had placed himself at its head, was called out by Jennings and taken to the office of the captain of the yard. It was the same room in the centre of which he had stood on his first day, six months before, following the sputtering pen of the smiling clerk as it wrote his history in an entry of five spaces across the lined page of the book. He now sat on a bench by the door, watching and listening.
The four jute-mill guards were all there; three of them talked in an undertone about the captain’s flat-topped desk, but Jennings, though in the group, was silent, toying with the file-knife which lay on the desk. 9009 scanned the weapon; it held a fascination to him. He noted its weight. One could hack or stab with it. It would split a skull or sever a rib. And the red-
