“By Jove, young man, if I get clear from here I’ll do what I can to help you,” he said.
Then he told me his own history—how he had grown tired of newspaper reporting in Boston and begged the head editor of the paper he represented to send him on an “assignment” to Cuba. He had been in the island four months, and had had a varied list of adventures, although none of a particularly thrilling or perilous nature.
“But now it looks as though I was in for it,” he concluded moodily. “That officer I knocked down will make matters as hard as he can for me.”
“And I’m afraid trying to break away from prison won’t help matters,” I said.
“You are right there. But, heigho! we must make the best of it.”
Yet making the best of it was small satisfaction to me. Tired out in body and mind, I sank down in a corner of the gloomy and damp cell and gave myself up to my bitter reflections.