"The Warden told me to hurry. I'll report to him that you detained me with an idle question," Wilson snarls back.
"That'll do, Wilson," the Assistant Deputy warns him.
"Wait till I see the Captain," Wilson growls, as he departs.
"If I had my way, I'd knock his damn block off," the Assistant mutters.
"Such impudence in a convict cannot be tolerated," Woods comments.
"The Cap'n won't hear a word against Wilson," the Deputy says meekly.
Hopkins frowns. They sit in silence. The negro busies himself, wiping the yellow-stained floor around the cuspidor. The Deputy ambles stiffly to the open cell. Woods rises, steps back to the wall, and looks up to the top galleries. No one is about. He crosses to the other side, and scans the bottom range. Long and dismal stretches the hall, in melancholy white and gray, the gloomy cell-building brooding in the centre, like some monstrous hunchback, without life or motion. Woods resumes his seat.
"Quiet as a church," he remarks with evident satisfaction.
"You're doing well, Scot," the Deputy mumbles. "Doing well."
A faint metallic sound breaks upon the stillness. The officers prick up their ears. The rasping continues and grows louder. The negro trusty tiptoes up the tiers.