George, who by reason of his age and experience was captain of the outfit, explained to me that, being the last man in the cell, it was my duty to empty the slop bucket in the morning and sweep out.

I must stop to describe briefly my three cellmates, all persistent and professional criminals, because of their influence on my after life.

A name on a prison register doesn’t usually mean anything. Although I knew George well later, I never learned from him his family name or birthplace. To ask about those things in the underworld is to invite suspicion. All criminals conceal them carefully and resent questions. George was known on the road and to the police as “Foot-and-a-Half George” because of an injury to one of his feet that cost him a couple of toes and caused a slight limp. It happened in this way, as he told me one night when we were waiting to open up the powder house at a rock quarry and get a supply of fresh dynamite, caps and fuse.