As I am about to resume my place in the line forming to march back to the cells for dinner, he recalls me:
"Say, Aleck, you'd better keep an eye on that fellow Jim. He is a little off, you know."
He points toward my head, with a significant rotary motion.
II
The mat shop is beginning to affect my health: the dust has inflamed my throat, and my eyesight is weakening in the constant dusk. The officer in charge has repeatedly expressed dissatisfaction with my slow progress in the work. "I'll give you another chance," he cautioned me yesterday, "and if you don't make a good mat by next week, down in the hole you go." He severely upbraided Jim for his inefficiency as instructor. As the consumptive was about to reply, he suffered an attack of coughing. The emaciated face turned greenish-yellow, but in a moment he seemed to recover, and continued working. Suddenly I saw him clutch at the frame, a look of terror spread over his face, he began panting for breath, and then a stream of dark blood gushed from his mouth, and Jim fell to the floor.
The steady whir of the looms continued. The prisoner at the neighboring machine cast a furtive look at the prostrate form, and bent lower over his work. Jim lay motionless, the blood dyeing the floor purple. I rushed to the officer.
"Mr. Hoods, Jim has—"
"Back to your place, damn you!" he shouted at me. "How dare you leave it without permission?"
"I just—"
"Get back, I tell you!" he roared, raising the heavy stick.