“Probably not, seeing that he’s under the whole of it,” agreed Wagg.  “He was a likable chap, spite of what he had done to get in here.  Poor Two-Seven-Nine!”

One of the inside guards had arrived at the scene of mourning.  He was greatly excited.  “And I guess it’s poor Two-Eight-Two!  He’s missing from the noon count-up, Mr. Warden!”

Wagg struggled upon his feet.  He was not simulating the new phase of his emotions.  He looked distinctly frightened.  “There’s only one under there.  I saw him go.  Who is Two-Eight-Two?”

“One of the pair sent down from Levant for breaking and entering in the nighttime.”

“He wasn’t in my crew—­he wasn’t on outdoor work,” shouted Wagg.

“What was his job?” demanded the warden.

“Harness shop,” reported an officer.  He called to another guard and started into the building indicated.

All those in the yard waited anxiously, their eyes on the door where the guards had entered.  Promptly the officers came out.  One propelled a convict, clutching the collar of the dingy prison coat; the other carried a length of narrow ladder that was fashioned from strips of leather.  “I reckon he hid out to work on this,” said the guard.

“Didn’t you know that you couldn’t get away with anything of that sort?” the warden demanded, angrily.

The convict looked past the warden, straight into the eyes of Wagg.  “You never can tell what you can get away with till you try it,” Two-Eight-Two declared.  There was a touch of insolence in his manner.

“Into the doghole with him!” the warden commanded.

Wagg surveyed the departure of the convict.  The man contrived to twist his head around and look behind him; and he disclosed a grin.  But he was hampered by the clutch on his collar and Wagg was not sure that the grin was intended for him, though the consciousness that the convict might have beheld what was on the inner side of that shield of boards was a thought which troubled Mr. Wagg’s complacent belief that a good job had been well done.

He continued to watch the man until the narrow door which opened from the yard, admitting to the doghole cells, swallowed up the convict and his guard.  All that time a sort of quivery feeling was inside Wagg.  He actually found himself in frantic mental search of some kind of a lie to be used in case the convict whirled and pointed to the big chimney and got over an accusation.  But the man did not look around again.

“I can plainly see that you are in a bad way, Wagg,” affirmed the warden.  Fervently did Mr. Wagg agree in his heart.  “Your leave of absence dates from this moment, if you say so.”

“I may have to go on to stone work again if I don’t get back my grit, warden.  I’d like to have the run of the yard for a day or so, in order to look over just how that blast worked.  Seeing that it cost a human life, I’d like to get full value of experience out of it.”