Fred made no reply.  The line of men shuffled forward.

“We go downstairs first for our shoes,” the youth finished.

Presently they found themselves upon the ground floor, in a small room where an attendant distributed shoes and hats.  It appeared that Fred’s shoes were there, duly labeled.  The man in charge made no objection to yielding them up.

“You must have a pull,” Monet remarked, as Fred sat down upon a stool to draw on his shoes.

Fred shook his head in silence.  Evidently the assistant superintendent had said a word for him. ...  He was not to be put to the torture of the bull pen, then!

Outside, the air was warm and the sunlight dazzling.  Fred felt a surge of red-blooded life sweep him as his quivering nostrils drank in the pungent odors from the midsummer foliage.  Waves of heat floated wraithlike from the yellow stubble, bathing the distant hills in an arid-blue haze.  At convenient intervals clumps of dark-green trees threw contrasting patches of shade upon the tawny, sun-bleached sod.  But Fred ignored their cool invitation.  He always had hated hot weather with all his coast-bred soul, but to-day a hunger for warmth possessed him completely.

Monet and he took a broad path which circled for about a quarter of a mile about the grounds.  As they progressed, several joined them.  Fred was introduced to each in turn, but he responded listlessly.  Almost at once the newcomers hurled questions at him...  Why was he there? ...  How long was he in for? ...  What did he think were the chances of escape?  Inevitably, every conversation turned upon this last absorbing topic.  These men seemed eager for confidences, they wanted to share their experiences, their grievances, their hopes.  But Fred Starratt recoiled.  He had not yet reached the stage when a thin trickle of words fell gratefully upon his ears.  He had no desire to either hear or speak.  All he craved was the healing silence of open spaces.  But he was soon to learn that this new life held no such soul-cleansing solace.  Gradually he fell a bit apart from his chattering comrades.

They passed an ill-kept croquet ground and some patches of garden where those who were so disposed could raise vegetables or flowers.  There was something pathetic about the figures bending with childlike faith over their labor of love—­attempting to make nature smile upon them.  Without the vision of the bull pen Fred Starratt would have found much that afternoon that was revolting.  But one glimpse into the horrible inferno of the morning had made him less sensitive to milder impressions.

After a while Monet detached himself from the rest of the walking throng and fell back with Starratt.  He seemed to have an instinctive gift for sensing moods, and Fred was grateful for his silence.

They were passing by a two-story concrete building in the Colonial style when Monet touched Fred’s arm.

“That’s the famous Ward Six,” Monet explained, softly.  “You’ll get there finally if you work it right...  It’s not heaven ... but alongside the other wards it comes pretty near being.”