"How long shall I be there?" I asked.
"Nobody knows," he answered. "If they like you, they may keep you! It's an indeterminate sentence.... That's a good cell you have. I was in that cell the last time, and I fixed it up a little."
"What did you do to it?" I asked.
"There's a built-in cupboard over at the other side, where you can keep your things!"
"Things!" I said—"what things? I've nothing but a pencil and a string."
"The boys will bring you stuff," he said; and then he gave me instructions.
"Write a note," he said. "Here's a piece of paper," shoving a fragment of newspaper through the crack. "Write a note addressed to one of your friends, tell him you are in cells, but get out every day to lavatory in Camp 8—they'll bring you food, and books."
"Books!" I said. "What good would books be to me in this black hole?"
"I am just coming to that," he whispered back; "there's a crack like this with a movable batten over on the other side. You can stand on the platform, pull down the strip of wood, and get in quite a decent light from the other cell. It is a light cell like mine; and right above it you'll find the board that is loose in the ceiling; you can pull it down and slip your book into the space and then let it up again."
I stepped over to the other side, and found everything just as he said. Life grew brighter all at once, and the two weeks of "cells" were robbed of a great part of their terror.