"Oh, nothing extra."
"I know how it is, Aleck, I've been through the mill. Keep up your nerve, you'll be all right, old boy. You're young yet."
"Old enough to die," I say, bitterly.
"S—sh! Don't speak so loud. The screw's got long ears."
"The screw?"
A wild hope trembles in my heart. The "screw"! The puzzling expression in the mysterious note,—perhaps this man wrote it. In anxious expectancy, I watch the rangeman. His back turned toward me, head bent, he hurriedly plies the broom with the quick, short stroke of the one-armed sweeper. "S—sh!" he cautions, without turning, as he crosses the line of my cell.
I listen intently. Not a sound, save the regular swish-swash of the broom. But the more practiced ear of the old prisoner did not err. A long shadow falls across the hall. The tall guard of the malicious eyes stands at my door.
"What you pryin' out for?" he demands.
"I am not prying."