The work was light, but very monotonous.

It did help to kill time, and it was less troublesome than picking oakum.
Mr.Truelove tells me that they made him pick oakum in prison till his fingers were raw, and laughed at him for complaining.

He was then seventy years old! Think of it, reader, and reflect on the tender mercies of the religion of charity.
During my imprisonment I never worked at anything but fibre-picking.
Gladly would I have wheeled a barrow in the open air, but that is a privilege reserved for felons; misdemeanants are locked up in their cells night and day.

Once there was an attempt made to instruct me in the art of brush-making, but it egregiously failed.

An officer from the D wing, where the mats and brushes are made, opened my cell door one afternoon, and shouted, "Come along!" "Where ?" I asked, not liking his manner.