"Dat so, Mr. Officer," the negro barber chimes in.
"Shut up!" the officer bellows. "Will you get out of that chair?" He advances toward me threateningly.
"I won't," I retort, looking him squarely in the eye.
Suppressed giggling passes along the waiting line. The keeper turns purple, and strides toward the office to report me.
II
"This is awful, Aleck. I'm so sorry you're locked up. You were in the right, too," "Coz" whispers at my cell. "But never min', old boy," he smiles reassuringly, "you can count on me, all right. And you've got other friends. Here's a stiff some one sends you. He wants an answer right away. I'll call for it."
The note mystifies me. The large, bold writing is unfamiliar; I cannot identify the signature, "Jim M." The contents are puzzling. His sympathies are with me, the writer says. He has learned all the details of the trouble, and feels that I acted in the defence of my rights. It is an outrage to lock me up for resenting undeserved humiliation at the hands of an unfriendly guard; and he cannot bear to see me thus persecuted. My time is short, and the present trouble, if not corrected, may cause the loss of my commutation. He will immediately appeal to the Warden to do me justice; but he should like to hear from me before taking action.
I wonder at the identity of the writer. Evidently not a prisoner; intercession with the Warden would be out of the question. Yet I cannot account for any officer who would take this attitude, or employ such means of communicating with me.
Presently "Coz" saunters past the cell. "Got your answer ready?" he whispers.
"Who gave you the note, Coz?"