A little company of men, three convicts and two warders, swung out under the great granite arch that leads into Dartmoor Prison. Turning to the left, they strode past the Governor's garden with its gay beds of tulips and hyacinths, and still keeping up a brisk pace, emerged a few minutes later into the main street of Princetown. Here they came to a halt in front of a depressing-looking stone building which bore an inscription announcing it to be the "Recreation Rooms." Two villagers were standing chatting on the further side of the road, but beyond the briefest of brief glances they betrayed no interest in the arrival of the party. For the inhabitants of Princetown the spectacle of convicts and warders has lost that attraction which it still possesses for the citizens of less happily situated towns. It is only the visitors to the hotel who stare, and on the present occasion there were no visitors about. They were all out on the moor, getting the best of a fine spring morning, and as many trout as it might please Fate to deceive. One of the warders unlocked the door, and the small party mounted the steps and entered the building. The interior certainly showed some traces of the recreation referred to outside. At the further end of the room was a stage set for an out-of-door scene, while a number of chairs piled up in the body of the hall suggested that an entertainment of some kind was under early contemplation. "All them chairs have got to be set out in rows," remarked the warder who had opened the door. "Don't take the front lot too near the stage, and leave a space up the middle, so as folks can pass in and out. Bascombe, you come along with me!" The convict addressed, a burly man of about sixty, with twinkling black eyes, followed the warder up a small flight of steps at the side of the stage into a room beyond. It was a nondescript sort of apartment, serving apparently the triple purpose of a green-room, a dressing-room, and a scene-painter's studio. A large theatrical basket with Clarkson's label on it stood in the centre of the floor, and propped against the walls were several pieces of blank stage canvas awaiting the artist's hand. "That's them, Bascombe," said the warder, jerking his thumb at the latter articles. "We want you to paint a room on 'em. It's supposed to be a scholar's room at Oxford College. D'ye think you can do it?" The convict nodded his head. "It's for 'Dick's Uncle,' ain't it, sir?" he drawled. "I remember the set. Saw it from the gallery at the old Strand." "That's right," said the warder. "Well, you shove along with it. There are your paints and brushes." He pointed to a small wooden table where a supply of scene-painter's accessories were neatly laid out. The convict wandered slowly round the room, inspecting the various pieces of canvas with a critical eye. Then, selecting the largest, he pulled up the table alongside, and taking the palette in his hand began to prepare his colours.