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