The smell of the prison was
like that of a pig sty. The door had opened into a narrow corridor,
dimly lit by a small square grated window at the further end, while
along either side were rows of strong plank doors opening outward, and
secured by heavy, oaken bars, slipped across them at the middle. The
muggy dog-day had been very oppressive, even out of doors; but here in
the corridor, it was intolerable. To breathe in the horrible concoction
of smells, was like drinking from a sewer; the lungs, even as they
involuntarily took it in, strove spasmodically to close their passages
against it. It was impossible for one unaccustomed to such an atmosphere,
to breathe, save by gasps. Bement stopped at one of the doors, and as
he was raising the bar across it, he said:
"Thar ain' on'y one feller 'sides Fennell in here. He's a Stockbridge
feller, too. The cell ain' so big's the others. Genally thar's three
or four together. I'll jess shet ye in, an come back for ye in a
minit."
He opened the door, and as the other stepped in, it was closed and
barred behind him. The cell was about seven feet square and as high.
The floor was a foot lower than the corridor, and correspondingly
damper.
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