“What’s the matter, Tom?” Number Four is alert as usual.
“Oh, nothing, only I can’t find a soft spot in this confounded place. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a pillow.”
“Guess you don’t know how to sleep on the floor,” says Joe, and he proceeds to give useful instructions as to the best means of arriving at a minimum of discomfort. Following Joe’s advice, I remove my felt shoes, and with my shirt rolled up on top of them have a very fair pillow. My coat must be taken off and thrown over the body as a coverlet, for one gets more warmth and comfort in this way than when it is worn. As I make these changes I also shift my place in the cell, moving over toward the door; for just as Joe is giving me his suggestions, a suspicious crawling on my neck gives the chance to remove a large-sized bedbug which, in spite of the special cleaning the cell had undergone just before my arrival, has found its way in.
And now comes a weird episode of this strange night’s experience. What the hour is I can only guess; but, having heard the distant sounds of the nine o’clock train going west, and the nine-fifty going east, I think it must be in the neighborhood of half past ten. Lying on the hard floor I am feeling not sleepy, but very tired—drowsy from sheer mental exhaustion. I hear my name called again, asking if I am still awake, but I do not answer, for I hardly know whether I am or not.
Suddenly a wail comes from the next cell, “Oh, my God! I’ve tipped over my water!”
For an instant I feel as if I must make an attempt to batter down the iron wall between us. I have been hoarding my own water; let me share it with that poor sick boy. But the next thought brings me to my senses. I am powerless. I can only listen to the poor fellow’s groans, while tears of rage and sympathy are wiped from my eyes on the sleeve of my soiled and ragged shirt.
“How did it happen?” I hear Joe ask.
“Oh, I just turned over and stretched my legs out and kicked the can over. And now—I can’t get any water until to-morrow morning! Oh, what in Hell shall I do?”
The speaker’s voice dies away into inarticulate moaning. Quietly I reach over for my own precious can of water and place it securely in a corner—far removed from any probable activities of my feet. Then presently as I lie quietly, awake and listening, I become aware of a terrible thing. I hear Number Two talking to himself and then calling out to Joe, “When he comes in here to-morrow morning, I’ll just—I’ll—I’ll throw my bucket at his head!” and I realize that he is talking of an assault upon the keeper. Then he begins to mutter wild nothings to himself. Gradually there dawns upon me a hideous thought—the poor lad is going out of his mind.
What shall I do? What can I do? What can anyone do? If we could only get some water to him! But the iron cage is solid on all sides. If we could only arouse the keeper! But there is no possible way to make anyone hear. We could all scream our lungs out and no one would come. We might all go mad and die in our cells and no one would come.