He is much amused at this sentiment, despite its imperfect rhyme, and asks me to repeat it so that he can learn it.
As we are working busily away, I perceive a sudden commotion over at the western end of the shop. One of the poor old prisoners, those mournful wrecks of humanity of which our company has its full share, has fainted, and lies cold and white on the stone floor. It is pleasant to see how tenderly those about him go to his help, raise the poor old fellow, seat him in one of the rough chairs—the best the shop affords—and bathe his forehead with cold water. It is also pleasant to hear the words of sympathy which are passed along from one to another.
In due time a litter is brought; the pitiful fragment of humanity is placed gently upon it, and is carried out of the shop into which he will probably never return. The look on his face is one not easy to forget, in its white stare of patient suffering. It seemed to typify long years of stolid endurance until the worn-out old frame had simply crumbled under the accumulated load.
There may be another lonely deathbed in the hospital to-night. No wife or child, no friend of any sort to smooth the pillow or to close the eyes. Alas, the pity of it!
But the sight is evidently no new one to my comrades. A few minutes only and the shadow has passed. There is even apparent an air of anxiety lest we dwell too much on the mournful episode. It will not do to think of death here; anything—anything but that!
It must be at about half-past eleven that a certain air of restlessness pervading the shop shows that dinner time is approaching. Murphy goes for his soap and towel. “Come on, Brown, and wash up.”
“I’m sorry, I forgot and left my soap and towel in my cell.”
“Well, never mind, come and use mine.”
So, raising my hand for the Captain’s permission to leave my place, I join Murphy at the sink, and again we use his soap and towel in common. My partner’s treatment of me is certainly very satisfactory; there is just enough of an air of protection suitable for a man who knows the ropes to show toward his partner who does not, combined with an open-hearted deference to an older man of wider experience that somehow is extraordinarily pleasant.
Before going back to the cell-house we march first to the place where we left the buckets this morning before breakfast. Each man secures his own bucket, which is marked with the number of his cell; then we go swinging up the yard, break ranks at the side door of the north wing, up the stairs, traverse the long gallery, and so to my cell around the corner. It begins to have a certain homelike association; but I do dislike having to close the grated door and lock myself in every time.