“I would like clean clothes,” said Jeff, while the Judge dressed his wounds skilfully. “A safety razor—they can keep it when I’m not using it—the daily papers, cigars, tobacco—let me see, what else? Oh, yes—I was trying to learn the typewriter. I’d like to try it again when my finger gets better. For books, send in Shakspere’s works and Carlyle’s ‘French Revolution,’ for the present.”
“You’re quite sure that’s all?” said the Judge, entertained and delighted. “You must intend to take your time about making up your mind.”
“My mind is entirely made up now. I would insure you against a watery death,” said Jeff with utmost calmness, “for a dime!”
“We shall see, we shall see!” said the Judge skeptically. “Time works many wonders. You will be ennuied! I prophesy it. Besides, I count upon your gratitude. Good-night!”
“Good-night!”
So you “brought me unostentatiously across,” did you? You made a slip that time. You talk well, Judge, but you talk too much. Across? Across the Rio Grande. I am in Juarez. I had already guessed it, for I hear the sounds of many whistling engines from far off, and but few from near at hand. My prison is underground, since those whistles are the only sounds that reach me, and they muffled and indistinct; coming by the fireplace. That chimney goes through a house above, since they keep up a fire. What to do?
Through the long hours he lay on his bed, sleepless. When he opened his eyes, at intervals, it was always to find the guard’s face toward him, watching him intently. They were taking no chances.
His vigorous brain was busy with the possibilities; contriving, hopeless as the situation might seem, more than one scheme, feasible only to desperation, and with terrible odds against success. These he put by to be used only as a last recourse, and fell to his Sisyphean task again with such concentration of all his powers upon the work in hand as few men have ever dreadful need to attain—such focused concentration that, had his mind been an actual searchlight, capable, in its turning, to throw a shining circle upon actual, living, moving men, in all places, far or near, in time past, present or to come—where it paused, the places, men and events could not have been more real, more clear, more brightly illumined. When this inner light wearied and grew faint he turned it back till it pierced the thick walls to another prison, dwelt on another prisoner there: a tall, gray figure, whose face was turned away; ringed round with hate, with ignominy, shame despair and death; not friendless. And the light rose again, strong and unwavering, ranging the earth for what help was there; so fell at last upon a plan, not after to be altered. A rough plan only—the details to be worked out—to-morrow and to-morrow. So thinking, utter exhaustion came upon him and he fell asleep.