But if I am helpless, not so Number Four. I soon hear Joe beginning to talk with the boy; and I perceive that Joe also has realized the situation, and with admirable patience and tact is applying the remedy. Never have I witnessed a finer act of Christian charity toward suffering humanity, never more skilful treatment of a sick and nervous fellow-creature. The first thing an intelligent doctor would advise in such a case is that the patient should confide in a sympathetic friend, air his grievance, get it out of his system, let the dangerous gases escape. A more sympathetic friend than Joe one could not find. Bit by bit he draws Number Two’s story from him and encourages him to vent his anger at the prison officials and their whole infernal system, and in fact at all things and persons related to his present situation.
Then having laid bare the wound Joe begins to apply antiseptic and soothing treatment. “Now you mustn’t worry too much about this thing,” is the advice of the sympathetic listener. “You’ve had a rotten deal, but listen to this.” And he relates some peculiarly atrocious case of punishment—true or otherwise. He gradually soothes the boy’s irritated temper, and then at the appropriate moment says, “Now give us another song!”
Number Two, after some demur, complies; sings a tender, sentimental ballad, and evidently feels better.
Then Joe cracks a joke; chats with Number Two about a few topics of general interest; and then, yawning, expresses his own intention of going to sleep. There are a few scattered incidental remarks at ever longer intervals. Then as I listen carefully and hear nothing in the next cell, I conclude that Number Two is safely over the strain for the time; that with Joe’s help he has conquered his black mood and is back on the right road again.
Good for you, Joe! Whatever your sins and failures of the past, whatever your failures and sins of the future, I do not believe that the Recording Angel will forget to jot down something to your credit for this night in Cell Four.
Quiet has settled upon us. There is heavy breathing in some of the cells, and I think that even Joe is contradicting his statement regarding sleep in the jail. But for a long time I can get no such relief. My ever increasing sympathy and anger are making me feverish. But at last, somewhere near midnight as near as I can judge, I do succeed in dropping off to sleep. It is a restless slumber at the best, for I am repeatedly made aware of some bone or muscle with the existence of which I am not usually concerned. So I twist and turn, as every few moments I am hazily and painfully aroused into semi-consciousness.
But even this restless slumber is denied me. Before I have found relief in it for more than half an hour I am suddenly and roughly awakened. The door of the cell is rattled violently and a harsh voice calls out, “Here! Answer to your name! Brown!”
Recovering my dazed and scattered senses as well as I can, I reply, “Here, sir!” and have a mind to add, “Still alive,” but suppress the impulse as I wish to ask a favor.
“Officer,” I say, as politely as possible, “that poor fellow in the next cell has tipped over his can of water. Can’t you let him have some more?”
The answer is far more courteous than I deserve for such an unheard-of and scandalous proposition. The keeper says shortly and gruffly, “’Fraid I can’t. ’Gainst the rules.” And he coolly proceeds to wake up the occupants of the other cells.