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realized that a delicate, ginger-haired young man, scarcely more than nineteen, had sidled up very close, warbling a London music-hall ditty in a lisping falsetto.
    A sweet tuxedo girl you see,
Queen of swell society,
Just the kind you’d like to hold,
Just the kind for sport I’m told.
    He put his mouth close to the prisoner’s ear and sang the chorus softly: “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay, Ta-ra-ra Boom—”
    â€œThat’ll do, Ginger.” A surly warder interrupted the serenade. “T’ the wall wi’ yez, an’ stop actin’ a damn fool, er I’ll put yez on report.” To the prisoner, he growled. “Lay on that bar, Number Three Fifty-one. I wants t’ see them bloody rocks bounce.”
    Ginger minced away, and the prisoner returned to his labors. But he had been working for only a short time when a whistle shrilled. He leaned on his bar and looked up to see a wave of gray white mist tumbling like a foaming surf down the slope of North Hessary Tor.
    â€œDown tools!” a warder barked. “Form up, boys. No talkin’, now.”
    Accustomed to this precautionary drill, the men assembled in small circles, standing shoulder to shoulder, facing outward. At times like these, the guards strictly enforced the prohibition against speaking, for they knew that in each man’s mind the swirling, swift-moving fog awakened the hope of escape. Of course, it was a vain hope, for everyone believed that the moor itself was as secure a prison as Dartmoor’s high stone walls, vanishing now into the enveloping mist. When the prisoners spoke surreptitiously of it among themselves, they agreed that the most favorable seasons of escape were the warmer months and the best possible direction of escape was to the east, toward Torquay, for in that direction the terrain was said to be firm enough to cross safely. It was well known that to attempt escape to the north, west, or south was to invite death in the treacherous mires, for the paths across them were few and known only to those who had lived their whole lives on the moor. Moreover, it was said that a stranger crossing the open ground, where there was little cover, would be instantly seen and reported by one of its inhabitants or by guards that were immediately stationed at certain checkpoints when an escape occurred. It would be only a matter of time before the bell sounded and the Prisoner Recaptured flag was hoisted over the prison gate. When each man was admitted to Dartmoor, the impossibility of escape was dinned into him repeatedly, and it was beyond reason to think that any would make the attempt.
    But desperate men are not always reasonable, and the prisoner was aware that there had been far more attempts at escape than the warders would admit—several successful ones, too, which had never been publicly acknowledged. During dry weather, it was quite possible to navigate the mires—in fact, it was done all the time by ramblers and botanical enthusiasts on holiday—and the increasing numbers of these visitors to the moor meant that the natives no longer paid particular attention to those they did not recognize. Furthermore, the moor itself was not as extensive as might be imagined, for while the vacant land might seem to stretch endlessly to the horizon, the port of Plymouth was only twelve miles to the south, and the town of Okehampton a similar distance to the north, while the moor at its widest was no more than seventeen miles. An escapee might not know exactly where he was going, but if he persevered steadily in any direction, he would reach civilization in a matter of hours, not days. Truth be told, the climate probably presented the worst obstacle, for the very best chance of escape was not in the summer, but during the winter or early spring, under cover of mist and long nights but in the face of icy rain, sleet, or snow and bitter winds that sliced to the bone. Of course, it wasn’t to the