“As you please,” I answered. “I’m used to it. I haven’t eaten for ten days, and, do you know, trying to begin to eat again is a confounded nuisance.
“Oh, ho, you’re threatening me, are you? A hunger strike, eh?”
“Pardon me,” I said, my voice sulky with politeness. “The proposition was yours, not mine. Do try and be logical on occasion. I trust you will believe me when I tell you that your illogic is far more painful for me to endure than all your tortures.”
“Are you going to stop your knuckle-talking?” he demanded.
“No; forgive me for vexing you—for I feel so strong a compulsion to talk with my knuckles that—”
“For two cents I’ll put you back in the jacket,” he broke in.
“Do, please. I dote on the jacket. I am the jacket baby. I get fat in the jacket. Look at that arm.” I pulled up my sleeve and showed a biceps so attenuated that when I flexed it it had the appearance of a string. “A real blacksmith’s biceps, eh, Warden? Cast your eyes on my swelling chest. Sandow had better look out for his laurels. And my abdomen—why, man, I am growing so stout that my case will be a scandal of prison overfeeding. Watch out, Warden, or you’ll have the taxpayers after you.”
“Are you going to stop knuckle-talk?” he roared.
“No, thanking you for your kind solicitude. On mature deliberation I have decided that I shall keep on knuckle-talking.”
He stared at me speechlessly for a moment, and then, out of sheer impotency, turned to go.