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tell the truth about this。 For a moment I imagined myself to be that mouse； not a guard at all but just another convicted criminal there on the Green Mile； convicted and condemned but still managing to look bravely up at a desk that must have seemed miles high to it （as the judgment seat of God will no doubt someday seem to us）； and at the heavy…voiced； blue…coated giants who sat behind it。 Giants that shot its kind with BB guns； or swatted them with brooms； or set traps on them； traps that broke their backs while they crept cautiously over the word VICTOR to nibble at the cheese on the little copper plate。
There was no broom by the duty desk； but there was a rolling mop…bucket with the mop still in the wringer； I'd
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