“What?” inquired Jack, putting his head a little more to one side and revolving his thumbs in a contrary direction, by way of variety.
“Torterers—man-torterers! What d’ye twirl your thumbs like that for, eh?”
“Because it reminds me how easily, if I were unchained and had on my wooden leg, I could twirl you round your own neck, and cram your heels into your own mouth, and ram you down your own throat, until there was nothing of you left but the extreme ends of your shirt-collar sticking out of your eyes.”
The mention of this peculiarly complicated operation seemed to be too much for the men: setting up a loud yell, they rushed upon Jack and seized him.
“Quick—the screws!” cried the man with the flattened nose.
A small iron instrument was brought, Jack’s thumbs inserted therein, and the handle turned. I heard a harsh, grating sound, and observed my poor companion’s face grow deadly pale and his lips turn blue. But he uttered no cry, and, to my surprise, he did not even struggle.
“Stop!” I shouted in a voice of thunder.
The men looked round in surprise. At that moment a great idea seemed to fill my soul. I cannot explain what it was. To this day I do not know what it was. It was a mystery—an indescribable mystery. I felt as one might be supposed to feel whose spirit were capable of eating material food, and had eaten too much. It was awful! Under the impulse of this sensation, I again shouted—
“Stop!”
“Why?”