“Well, I’m Tom Brown; it’s pretty much the same thing, you know.”
“Well, say, Tom! You’re a corker! I can’t believe it’s you!”
Here a gentle voice breaks in. “Yes, I guess it is all right. I thought I recognized his voice.”
“Yes, I’m the fellow you mean,” is my reassuring statement. I feel that things are opening well.
“Well, Tom! I’m Number Four, and that other fellow’s Number Two. But, say, what’re you in for?”
“I refused to work.”
“Gee! Did you? How did you do it?”
So I tell the story again, of my complaint regarding our bad working material and the condition of my hands. Regarding the latter my statements, although somewhat exaggerated, are not so very far from the truth. As I mention my hands it occurs to me that they feel very disagreeably sticky. They must continue in that condition, however, for some time, for I can’t wash them until I am out of this place.
My invisible audience listens apparently with interest to my story; and Number Four sums up his impressions with another enthusiastic, “Well, Tom, you’re all right!” which seems to be his highest form of encomium.
Presently I take up some questioning on my own account.