“Why—why—is—is—this—John Smith?”
“So I am called,” I replied, coolly taking a seat on a bench.
He arose from his seat, stared for a moment, again, with contracted brows and a puzzled expression of countenance, then said:
“I—I—thought you—were put—in No. 41!”
“So I was,” I calmly replied. And I deliberately took a newspaper from my pocket and cast my eye over the late items.
“How—how—in the name of sense—did you get out?”
“O, that was easy,” I replied, carelessly, as I regarded the paper more attentively.
“Sergeant Kinsley,” said the Doctor, calling to the insignificant little sergeant who was standing at the other end of the porch, “come here.”
The sergeant approached.
“Didn’t you put Smith in the guard-house?”