they capered wildly as the horseshoes rose high into the air, and shouted after them as if to direct their flights.
All these men played without repression, with violence. And even those who merely walked, singly or in pairs, threw out their legs like horses just out of the stable. All save a few who paced stiffly with bowed heads, hands folded behind them—they were old-timers—and one or two who stood still or moved only to spasms of impulse, talking aloud to themselves—these had tempted madness by counting their days too often in the darkness of dungeon or drear of “solitary.”
“Where’s your pass?”
9009 started. He had forgotten, watching the others.
“I got none,” he said sullenly to the guard at his elbow.
“Go in, then.”
The guard spoke without passion or resentment, almost wearily. He waved his hand toward the cell-house. 9009 went back to his cell.
