The Warden's hands tremble as he points to the marked item. "Here it is! You talk of revolution, and comrades, and Anarchism. Mr. Milligan never saw that, I'm sure. It's a nice thing for the papers to say that you are editing—from the prison, mind you—editing an Anarchist sheet in New York."
"You can't believe everything the papers say." I protest.
"Hm, this time the papers, hm, hm, may be right," the Deputy interposes. "They surely didn't make the story, hm, hm, out of whole cloth."
"They often do," I retort. "Didn't they write that I tried to jump over the wall—it's about thirty feet high—and that the guard shot me in the leg?"
A smile flits across the Warden's face. Impulsively I blurt out:
"Was the story inspired, perhaps?"
"Silence!" the Warden thunders. "You are not to speak, unless addressed, remember. Mr. McPane, please search him."
The long, bony fingers slowly creep over my neck and shoulders, down my arms and body, pressing in my armpits, gripping my legs, covering every spot, and immersing me in an atmosphere of clamminess. The loathsome touch sickens me, but I rejoice in the thought of my security: I have nothing incriminating about me.
Suddenly the snakelike hand dips into my coat pocket.
"Hm, what's this?" He unwraps a small, round object. "A knife, Captain."