My hair, streaked with gray, was a five- years' growth, as were my beard and moustache.

And I, too, tottered as I walked, so that the guards helped to lead me across that sun-blinding patch of yard.

And Skysail Jack and I peered and knew each other under the wreckage.
Men such as he are privileged, even in a prison, so that he dared an infraction of the rules by speaking to me in a cracked and quavering voice.
"You're a good one, Standing," he cackled.

"You never squealed." "But I never knew, Jack," I whispered back--I was compelled to whisper, for five years of disuse had well-nigh lost me my voice.

"I don't think there ever was any dynamite." "That's right," he cackled, nodding his head childishly.