"Oh, dry up!—I'll pass," said one.
"Remember, you wicked men, that you have souls to save!" cried Diggs, growing quite warm and earnest in this, his first exhortation.
"Oh, hush up yer nonsense!—Order him up, Bill," said another.
"You have souls," persisted Diggs.
"We've got no such thing!—I'll order you up and play it alone," replied the one called Bill.
"Remember, poor dying sinners, you have souls," Diggs went on.
"Remember, sir, you have a head," said one of the players, "and if you don't keep it closed, you'll get it punched."
Abashed and crestfallen, Diggs again retired to a corner to pray, this time in silence, and to wonder at the perverseness and wickedness of this generation.
The day passed, the next, the next, and the next without any news from the outside world. Diggs asked the soldier, who brought their meals twice a day, at each visit, what was to be done to him, the soldier on each occasion answering that he did not know.
Diggs had grown despondent; his round, red face had become pale and attenuated, and his little gray eyes had lost even their silly twinkle. He thought of all the imprisoned heroes and martyred saints he had ever read of; finally he came to imagine himself a hero, and determined that, when he was released, he would write a book on prison life, relating his own experience. As an author, he certainly would achieve fame. If only he could have pen, ink and paper, he would at once begin the wonderful production, which was to astonish the world. Mr. Diggs thought, if he himself could not be a hero, he could portray heroes with life-like effect. He was half persuaded to become a novelist. He would be a preacher or lawyer, a novelist, any thing in the world but a soldier; he had had enough of that. As he had not yet been ordered out and shot, Mr. Diggs' hopes began to rise in his breast, and already, he felt half ashamed of the weakness he had displayed.