I returned to my place. Jim lay very still, his lips parted, his face ashen.
Slowly, with measured step, the officer approached.
"What's the matter here?"
I pointed at Jim. The guard glanced at the unconscious man, then lightly touched the bleeding face with his foot.
"Get up, Jim, get up!"
The nerveless head rolled to the side, striking the leg of the loom.
"Guess he isn't shamming," the officer muttered. Then he shook his finger at me, menacingly: "Don't you ever leave your place without orders. Remember, you!"
After a long delay, causing me to fear that Jim had been forgotten, the doctor arrived. It was Mr. Rankin, the senior prison physician, a short, stocky man of advanced middle age, with a humorous twinkle in his eye. He ordered the sick prisoner taken to the hospital. "Did any one see the man fall?" he inquired.
"This man did," the keeper replied, indicating me.
While I was explaining, the doctor eyed me curiously. Presently he asked my name. "Oh, the celebrated case," he smiled. "I know Mr. Frick quite well. Not such a bad man, at all. But you'll be treated well here, Mr. Berkman. This is a democratic institution, you know. By the way, what is the matter with your eyes? They are inflamed. Always that way?"