thin-fingered hands together, watching the batter with ferret eyes. Behind the safe-cracker, a tall, gaunt highwayman named Miller—he had been leader in several attempts to escape and had a mania for giving away his clothes before such breaks—crouched in his red stripes, eyes gleaming. Suddenly the pitcher’s contorted body unlocked with a snap; the ball sped, white in the sunlight; the safe-cracker swung his bat with terrific force, wildly; the ball thumped into the broad mit of the red-striped highwayman. “Strike one,” yelled the umpire, a stony-faced confidence-man. The crowd whooped. The safe-cracker spat in his hands, taking his bat with a new grip. The pickpocket threw a back handspring.
In a corner, near the stone building where were the condemned and solitary cells, two bullet-headed burglars were shoving their hands into tattered boxing gloves; without premonitory fiddling, they began slamming blows thick and fast into each other’s faces. Near them, men were pitching quoits, using horseshoes;
