"Well, you know," he replied, "you must keep your cell clean." "Yes," I rejoined, "and I _do_ keep it clean for my own sake; but your blacklead is _dirt_." That ended the conversation, and the blacklead question was never agitated again, although once or twice, during my absence from the cell, the obnoxious stuff was put on the floor and polished up by one of the cleaners.
Let me add that in the new cells the floors are all boarded, and the blacklead nuisance is there unknown.
While I was meditating on my luxurious surroundings, the warder entered again with a prisoner, who carried a bag.

"Well, Mr.Foote," said the genial officer, "how are you getting on?
I've brought you some work.

It isn't hard, and you needn't task yourself; you'll find it help to pass away the time." Some of the contents of the bag were then emptied on the floor.

They consisted of fibre-rope clipped into short lengths.

These had to be picked abroad.