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Today, more than once, he had scattered the ore which, on my hands and knees, I had chipped from the narrow shafts of the mine. - (Outlaw of Gor, Chapter 17, Sentence #39)

"Be quiet, you fool!" hissed a thin, terrified voice from perhaps a dozen feet away. It was Ost of Tharna, who, like Andreas and myself, had been condemned to the mines. He hated me, blaming me somehow for the fact that he found himself in this dire predicament. Today, more than once, he had scattered the ore which, on my hands and knees, I had chipped from the narrow shafts of the mine. And twice he had stolen the pile of ore I had accumulated, poking it into the canvas sack we slaves wore about our necks in the mines. I had been beaten by the Whip Slave for not contributing my share to the day's quota of ore required of the chain of which I was a member. If the quota was not met, the slaves were not fed that night. - (Outlaw of Gor)