COKESON. [Looking at him-in a tone of sudden dogged hostility]
I keep dogs.
THE CHAPLAIN. Indeed?
COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up all by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over.
THE CHAPLAIN. Unfortunately, the criminal is not a dog; he has a sense of right and wrong.
COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it.
THE CHAPLAIN. Ah! there I'm afraid we must differ.
COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindness they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes 'em savage.
THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a little more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners.
COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him for years. He's eurotic—got no stamina. His father died of consumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him harm. I said to him: "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr. COKESON," he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against the wall." It's not nice.
During this speech the DOCTOR has entered. He is a
medium-Sized, rather good-looking man, with a quick eye.
He stands leaning against the window.