"Throw me in the hole, the dungeon, you know. I'd lose my job, too."
"Then better don't talk to me."
"Oh, I ain't scared of him. He can't catch me, not he. He didn't see me talkin'; just bluffed. Can't bluff me, though."
"But be careful."
"It's all right. He's gone out in the yard now. He has no biz in the block,[15] anyhow, 'cept at feedin' time. He's jest lookin' for trouble. Mean skunk he is, that Cornbread Tom."
"Who?"
"That screw Fellings. We call him Cornbread Tom, b'cause he swipes our corn dodger."
"What's corn dodger?"
"Ha, ha! Toosdays and Satoordays we gets a chunk of cornbread for breakfast. It ain't much, but better'n stale punk. Know what punk is? Not long on lingo, are you? Punk's bread, and then some kids is punk."
He chuckles, merrily, as at some successful bon mot. Suddenly he pricks up his ears, and with a quick gesture of warning, tiptoes away from the cell. In a few minutes he returns, whispering: