CHAPTER XI—THE BROTHERS
MAY I see Hicks?”
The stout, bearded jailor nearly-filled the doorway. He puffed his short pipe deliberately, and stared at Aidee. The smoke floated up and around the gas jet over his head.
“Ain't you the Preacher?”
“So they call me.”
The jailor stepped back, either in surprise or consent. Aidee walked into the opening and passed on. The jailor followed him.
“Where is his cell?”
“Spiritual consolation! That's it. That's the word,” said the jailor thoughtfully. “Some folks has the gift of it. Oils a chap up, don't it, so he'll slip out'n his corpse, like he was greased. Well, there's som'p'n in it. But I seen in the Press this mornin'—say, you ain't goin' to instigate him again?”