He had a broom in his hands, and was aimlessly making a little smudge of dust, doing his part in the observance of an old, cruel, and hideous superstition. I knew, of course, that he was a prisoner. Usually there were three or four, sometimes half a dozen, such as he. They were the chain-gang, and they were Bad--made so by Rum. I knew that they were brought out of the calaboose, that damp, dark place under the roof of the market-house, somewhere between the office of the mayor and the headquarters of the fire department; and glimpses were to be caught now and then of their faces pressed against those bars. When, under the shade of the broad eaves, we were about to enter the mayor’s office, my grandfather motioned to the prisoner out there in the center of the Square, who with a new alacrity dropped his broom, picked up his ball, and lugging it in his arms, came up close to us, so very close that I could see the sweat that drenched his forehead, stood in great beads on his upper lip, matted the hair on his forearms, stained with dark splashes his old shirt, and glistened on his throat and breast, burned red by the sun. He dropped his ball, took off that rag of a hat, raised eyelids that were powdered with dust, and looked at my grandfather. “How many days did I give you?” my grandfather asked him. “Fifteen, your honor,” he said. “How long have you been in?” “Three days, your honor.” “Are you the only one in there?” “Yes, your honor.” My grandfather paused and looked at him. “Pretty hot out there, isn’t it?” asked my grandfather. The prisoner smiled, a smile exactly like that anyone would have for such a question, but the smile flickered from his face, as he said: “Yes, your honor.” My grandfather looked out over the Square and up and down. There was no one anywhere to be seen. “Well, come on into the office.” The prisoner picked up his ball, and followed my grandfather into the mayor’s office. My grandfather went to a desk, drew out a drawer, fumbled in it, found a key, and with this he stooped and unlocked the irons on the prisoner’s ankles. But he did not remove the irons--he seated himself in the large chair, and leaned comfortably against its squeaking cane back. “Now,” my grandfather said, “you go out there in the Square--be careful not to knock the leg irons off as you go,--and you sweep around for a little while, and when the coast is clear you kick them off and light out.” The creature in the drab rags looked at my grandfather a moment, opened his lips, closed them, swallowed, and then.... “You’d better hurry,” said my grandfather, “I don’t know what minute the marshal----”