I know what he means; and he knows what I mean. It is the shadow of the jail that is between us.
“Come on now, Jack,” I say; “don’t worry about me. I shall get through it all right.”
“But you don’t know what it means,” he insists anxiously. “One hour of that misery is worse than a week of the worst kind of pain. You’d better think it over.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Jack; I have reconsidered it and I don’t believe I shall stay so long as I intended. In fact I had planned to go down this morning but I shall wait until afternoon. I’ll get all I want of it in about three or four hours.”
“You can just bet you will,” and Jack turns away with a discouraged air to pick up a fresh batch of rattan. I’m afraid he thinks me a very obstinate and unreasonable person.
The rattan seems to be worse than ever this morning. They’ve tried cold water, and they’ve tried hot water, and they’ve tried steam; but like the White Queen’s shawl, “there’s no pleasing it.” It still remains quite unfit to work with; and for the sake of the future usefulness of my fingers I can’t help thinking it’s just as well that my prison bit is drawing to a close.
As we are working away, one of our shopmates comes over to me (the same who accused me yesterday of working too hard) and says: “Well, Brown, I think you must be taking in the jail to-day.”
My surprise is great. No one, except Jack, Grant and the Warden, were aware of my intention, so far as I knew.
“What made you think of that?” I ask.
“Oh, they had a jail suit washed yesterday; so I guess they’re getting ready for you,” is the reply.