Bill Wiley nodded his head coldly and grunted, but Hogan and Ikey extended their hands, and then they pushed forward toward the stranger a rocking-chair.
“Mr. Frayer is tired,” said Higgins, as he himself sat down. “He has been on the Isthmus only two weeks, and he has had very little sleep since he came.”
“I have the bed all ready for him,” said Ikey. “It’s got clean sheets on it, and he can turn in whenever he likes.”
“Thank you,” said the man, quietly, “but I’d rather sit here and smoke a little before turning in.”
“Help yourself,” said Hogan, pushing a box of tobacco toward him; “and here’s matches.”
For some moments the men smoked in silence, Bill Wiley eyeing the stranger meanwhile.
“You men are mighty civil to me,” suddenly spoke up the stranger. “I did not think there was any one on the Isthmus that had any heart. I’ll take that back, though, for there is one man who has been pretty nice to me. He had trouble himself once, poor fellow.”
“They used you purty rough over in 9, didn’t they?” asked Bill Wiley, speaking for the first time.
“They surely did. They didn’t let me sleep nights. My roommate would not let me stay in the room nights with him. When I’d manage to doze off for a few minutes he would throw things at me and wake me up.
“I’ve seen some rough men in the course of twenty-five years in Sing Sing, but none of them could beat that crowd for viciousness and general all-around cussedness.