Mr. Greaves sits down at the officers' desk, near the hall entrance. The Assistant Deputy, pad in hand, places himself at the head of the sick line. The doctor leans against the door of the rotunda, facing the Deputy. The block officers stand within call, at respectful distances. "Two-fifty-five!" the Assistant Deputy calls out. A slender young man leaves the line and approaches the doctor. He is tall and well featured, the large eyes lustrous in the pale face. He speaks in a hoarse voice: "Doctor, there is something the matter with my side. I have pains, and I cough bad at night, and in the morning----" "All right," the doctor interrupts, without looking up from his note book. "Give him some salts," he adds, with a nod to his assistant. "Next!" the Deputy calls. "Will you please excuse me from the shop for a few days?" the sick prisoner pleads, a tremor in his voice. The physician glances questioningly at the Deputy. The latter cries, impatiently, "Next, next man!" striking the desk twice, in quick succession, with the knuckles of his hand. "Return to the shop," the doctor says to the prisoner. "Next," the Deputy calls, spurting a stream of tobacco juice in the direction of the cuspidor. It strikes sidewise, and splashes over the foot of the approaching new patient, a young negro, his neck covered with bulging tumors. "Number?" the doctor inquires. "One-thirty-seven, A one-thirty-seven!" the Deputy mumbles, his head thrown back to receive a fresh handful of "scrap" tobacco. "Guess Ah's got de big neck, Ah is, Mistah Boyce," the negro says hoarsely. "Salts. Return to work. Next!" "A one-twenty-six!" A young man with parchment-like face, sere and yellow, walks painfully from the line. "Doctor, I seem to be gettin' worser, and I'm afraid----" "What's the trouble?" "Pains in the stomach. Gettin' so turrible, I----" "Give him a plaster. Next!" "Plaster hell!" the prisoner breaks out in a fury, his face growing livid. "Look at this, will you?" With a quick motion he pulls his shirt up to his head. His chest and back are entirely covered with porous plasters; not an inch of skin is visible. "Damn your plasters," he cries with sudden sobs, "I ain't got no more room for plasters. I'm putty near dyin', an' you won't do nothin' fer me." The guards pounce upon the man, and drag him into the rotunda. _The Keepers_