“They got me,” he said again.
“So I see,” I said. “Now what?”
They were holding him for a preliminary hearing on Monday, he said. Then, as if it were something which did not concern him—as if he were speaking of someone else who was altogether a stranger to him—he told me of his work for the Communists as I have related it above. I could not understand it. I stared at him, for what he was saying sounded crazy, especially to be coming in so calm and uninflected a voice.
“But why?” I wanted to know.
“It was my job,” he said, as if that explained it truly and entirely; as if it completely satisfied the demands of my question.
“What did you send for me for? I can’t do anything for you,” I said. “Somebody’s made a fool of you. Let them look out for you.”
“You got it all wrong,” he said, shaking his head slowly.
“You’ve got it all wrong. You’re in jail,” I said bitingly.
“But I ain’t no fool, unless doing things for a good point is one. And I don’t want nobody to look out for me.”
“Well, if you did, somebody else would have to do it.”