Our first duty was to proceed to the tool-house, and, armed with shovels, wheelbarrows, baskets, etc., to commence grubbing about. As a newcomer I was selected for the “barrer,” and a heavier “barrer” I never felt; but having knocked some paint off a gate, and rolled it over a sacred grass plot, my incapacity was so manifest that I was disrated to a shovel. Here, too, I was lamentably ignorant, and out of every spoonful I collected a third went into the “barrer” and the remainder everywhere else. I was, in fact, trying to emulate the scavengers one sees ladling mud on wet days. The long shots they make have always inspired me with admiration; their revels in the oceans of mud exercised a fascination over me, causing me till now to overlook the science that is required to produce such apparently simple efforts. I have often driven up the hill that runs outside the front of the prison and fancied it was steep; that fancy has since been confirmed, and I am now in a position to assert positively that it is very steep, especially between the shafts of a “barrer.” A duty we were about to undertake one day was the weekly overhaul of the head warder’s quarters. I was spared a share in this revolting exercise—I never knew how—but was simply told I should not be required. I had often sympathized with these gardeners long before I joined them, when seeing them shaking the frowsy rugs and rags, carpet slippers, and other gimcracks, and dusting Mrs. Head Warder’s best Sunday willow-pattern teapot. My general ignorance, too, in the various branches of scavengering had become so apparent that I felt convinced I should be informed that I “didn’t suit”; but, thanks to the consideration of the Governor and assistant surgeon, I was retained, though otherwise employed. I was henceforth entirely detached, and turned out into various portions of the grounds, and told to do the best I could. My special instructions were to annihilate a certain weed, for which purpose I was armed with a knife, though I seldom used it for that particular purpose. The effect of this weed on the funny head gardener was very strange, and he would grind his teeth and mutter at the very sight of one. I at once took the cue, and feeling it would please him, besides showing my zeal, used the strongest language I could lay tongue to whenever I detected one. My zeal, I fear, often led me into mistakes, and valuable clover and priceless dandelions were ruthlessly sacrificed to my want of discrimination. These errors in uprooting the wrong plants generally elicited a gentle rebuke, but the “cussing” at the hated fungus condoned my offence. “It was zeal, sir, zeal,” and he began to “like that chap—he was willing, anxious like.” But the way I won the old boy’s heart was my love for old coins (as a fact, I know nothing about them, and prefer the more modern specimens). It happened one day he picked up a rusty coin—whether a button or an obsolete farthing I cannot say. I