We were collared and marched off before we well knew what had happened.
The abrupt transition from the noise and light of the Square to the silent, gloomy brick room in the rear of the Meat Market seemed like the work of enchantment.

We stared at each other, aghast.
"Well," remarked Jack Harris, with a sickly smile, "this is a go!" "No go, I should say," whimpered Harry Blake, glancing at the bare brick walls and the heavy ironplated door.
"Never say die," muttered Phil Adams, dolefully.
The bridewell was a small low-studded chamber built up against the rear end of the Meat Market, and approached from the Square by a narrow passage-way.

A portion of the rooms partitioned off into eight cells, numbered, each capable of holding two persons.

The cells were full at the time, as we presently discovered by seeing several hideous faces leering out at us through the gratings of the doors.
A smoky oil-lamp in a lantern suspended from the ceiling threw a flickering light over the apartment, which contained no furniture excepting a couple of stout wooden benches.

It was a dismal place by night, and only little less dismal by day, tall houses surrounding "the lock-up" prevented the faintest ray of sunshine from penetrating the ventilator over the door--long narrow window opening inward and propped up by a piece of lath.
As we seated ourselves in a row on one of the benches, I imagine that our aspect was anything but cheerful.