“Poor chap, he does look bad, though,” murmured the commercial, if we may so term him—“very bad.”
There was a silence for some time.
Knoulton sat himself down at a side table and began to read. He and the other convicts, who were elected to similar offices to himself, were permitted to have what books they chose from the prison library. This was, of course, a great boon to them.
He read on for half an hour or so, being under the impression that the patient had sunk into a peaceful slumber; but this was not so.
Murdock even at that hour was meditating how he might at some future time effect the object, the thought of which had occupied his undivided attention for so many long and wearisome years.
He knew that young Knoulton was in the room, and he judged, or rather hoped, he had been appointed nurse. This hope he fancied would be delusive if he made any inquiry.
He, therefore, chose for the nonce to maintain a moody silence. He wouldn’t be first to speak—not he; he didn’t care for any man. He had been befooled and baffled; the world was against him, and he was against the world. These were his first fugitive thoughts upon Knoulton’s first half hour or so in the apartment.
The door opened, and the governor entered.
He walked to the bedside of the patient and looked at him for a moment or so, then apparently satisfied with his inspection he said in a kind tone—
“I hope you like your new quarters, No. 95? They are much more comfortable, I think, than the infirmary.”