Wagg, it was manifest, was not so much a master of facial control that he could suppress all signs of satisfaction. He looked pleased—like a man who had employed tactics that were working according to plans and hopes.
“Sick?”
“Yes—heart and soul! Body, too! Isn't there any way of my getting a job wheeling that dirt?”
Wagg made his noiseless getaway. He departed suddenly, without a word. Until the next night Vaniman was left to wonder to what extent he had offended the official.
But Wagg showed no signs of unfriendliness when he halted, after midnight, at the cell door. “Feel any better?”
“No!”
“I reckon I understand. Of course I understand! Most of 'em that's in here haven't anything special to look forward to when they get out. Your case is different. Everything to look forward to! No wonder you walk the cell.”
On he slid, silently.
Vaniman had read the Arabian Nights tales, as they were divided in the literal translation. He reflected whimsically on the methods of the story-teller who, “having said her permitted say,” was wont to stop right in the middle of a sentence for the sake of piquing interest in what was to follow.
The next night the prisoner's interest was heightened into real amazement. Wagg stuck his hand through the bars and waggled it invitingly.