He went over to the door and tried it tentatively—no inside doorknob, of course, this wasn't a hotel. He looked through the bars—nothing but corridor and the cell on the other side. Should he call? For an instant the fantastic idea of crying “Waiter!” or “Please send up my breakfast!” tugged at him hard, but fantasy had got him into much too much trouble as it was, he reflected savagely. It made you feel ridiculously self-conscious, standing behind bars like this and shouting into emptiness. Still he had to get out. He cleared his throat.
“Hey,” he remarked in a pleasant conversational tone. “Hey!”
No answer, he grew bolder.
“Hey!” This time the conversational tone was italicized. A rustle of voices somewhere rewarded him—that must be people talking. Well, if they talked, they could listen.
“HEY!” and now his voice was emphatic enough for headline capitals.
The rustle of voices ceased. There was a moment of stupefied silence. Then,
“SHUT UP!” came from the end of the corridor in a roar that made Oliver feel as if he had been cooing. The roar irritated him—they might be a little more mannerly. He clutched the bars and discovered to his pleased surprise that they would rattle. He shook them as hard as he could like a monkey asking for peanuts.
“Hey there! I want to get out!” and though he tried to make his voice as impressive as possible it seemed to him to pipe like a canary's in that long steel emptiness.
“I've got to catch a train!” he added desperately and then had to stuff his coat sleeve into his mouth to keep from spoiling his dramatics with most unseasonable mirth.
There were noises from the end of the corridor—the noises of strong men at bitter war with something stronger than they, strange rumblings and snortings and muffled whoops. Then the voice came again and this time its words were slow and deliberately spaced so as to give it time to master whatever rocked it between whiles.