Only Wingie seems different. There is a gentle note about his manner that breathes cheer and encouragement. Often I long for his presence, yet he seldom finds opportunity to talk with me, save Sundays during church service, when I remain in the cell. Perhaps I may see him to-day. He must be careful of the Block Captain, on his rounds of the galleries, counting the church delinquents.[23] The Captain is passing on the range now. I recognize the uncertain step, instantly ready to halt at the sight of a face behind the bars. Now he is at the cell. He pencils in his note-book the number on the wooden block over the door, A 7.
"Catholic?" he asks, mechanically. Then, looking up, he frowns on me.
"You're no Catholic, Berkman. What d'you stay in for?"
"I am an atheist."
"A what?"
"An atheist, a non-believer."
"Oh, an infidel, are you? You'll be damned, shore 'nough."
The wooden stairs creak beneath the officer's weight. He has turned the corner. Wingie will take advantage now. I hope he will come soon. Perhaps somebody is watching—
"Hello, Aleck! Want a piece of pie? Here, grab it!"
"Pie, Wingie?" I whisper wonderingly. "Where do you get such luxuries?"