At that time, I did not know that he was a prisoner. He showed me a number of things about the boxes and spoke of the open cracks and knot holes through which one could see what was inside. I declined to look after the first glance.
"You don't mind it very much after you're used to it," he said. "Of course, you would, but I mean us."
I began to understand that he was a prisoner.
"When you're a prisoner, you get used to a good deal," he said, later on, when they were unloading the bodies and some of the men looked white and sick. "They're new to it," he explained to me. "It makes them sick and scared; but it won't after a while."
"Why are most of them here?" I asked. "Most of them look honest—and—"
"Honest!" he exclaimed, with the first show he had made of rebellion or resentment. "Honest! Of course most of us are honest. It is liquor does it mostly. None of us are thieves—yet!"
I noticed the "us," but still evaded putting him in with the rest.
"Why do they not let liquor alone, after such a hard lesson?"
He laughed. He had a red, bloated, but not a bad face. He was an Englishman.
"Some of us can't. Some don't want to, and some—some—it is about all some can get."