They put him in a temporary cell with three others—two white men and a Chinese, who had been arrested for smuggling opium. The floor was of thick boards sloping toward the center, and in a corner was a washbasin. There were no seats. One of the white men was pacing up and down with the aimless ferocity of an animal freshly caged. At Fred's entrance the younger and quieter of these two looked up and said, eagerly:
"Got a smoke?"
Fred drew out a box of cigarettes and tossed it to him. The other white man came forward; even the Chinese was moved to interest.
Fred saw the box passed from one to the other. There did not seem to be any color line drawn about this transient solace. Fred took a smoke himself.
"What are you up for?" the younger man inquired.
Fred experienced a shock. "Oh … you see … I just got caught in a jam. It will come out all right."
It sounded ridiculous—this feeble attempt at pride, and Fred regretted it, once it escaped him. But his questioner was not put out of countenance.
"Well, if you've got a pull, it's easy; otherwise—" He finished with a shrug and went on smoking.
Fred looked at him intently. He was a lad not much over twenty, with thick black hair and very deep-blue eyes and an indefinable quality which made his rather irregular features seem much more delicate than they really were.
"What's your trouble?" Fred asked, suddenly.