"Yes, sir."
The guard measures me with a look of scornful hatred. Malice mirrors in his face. Involuntarily I step back into the cell. His gaze falls on my naked feet.
"Ain't you got no shoes?"
"Yes."
"Ye-e-s! Can't you say 'sir'? Got shoes?"
"Yes."
"Put 'em on, damn you."
His tongue sweeps the large quid of tobacco from one cheek to the either. With a hiss, a thick stream of brown splashes on my feet. "Damn you, put 'em on."
The clatter and noises have ceased; the steps have died away. All is still in the dark hall. Only occasional shadows flit by, silent, ghostlike.