men in the cell-house did not listen. They stood at lock-step in the corridor, their feet shuffling on the concrete floor. The line was moving very slowly toward the outer door; at times a tremor as of impatience passed along its gray links.
Jennings stood at the door of the cell-house. As each man slid forward to him, he handed him a slip of paper—his pass. Without this pass, no convict could stay in the yard. The sallow guard glanced coldly at each felon; occasionally his white-gray eyes roved back along the line. Once, as they settled upon 9009, they glinted; then the blurring film crept back over them.
Finally 9009, now the head of the diminished line, was standing at the door, his eyes upon the ground, his right hand held up for the pass, and there was a weary hunger in his face.
“Well?” said Jennings sharply.
“My pass,” said 9009, his eyes on the ground, his hand still held out.
“Go on,” said Jennings; “don’t be stopping the line.”
