“If I'm to be locked up,” said Hal, “I've certainly a right to know what is the charge against me.”
“Go to blazes!” said the other, and slammed the door and went down the corridor.
Hal went to the window again, and passed the time watching the people who went by. Groups of ragged children gathered, looking up at him, grinning and making signs—until some one appeared below and ordered them away.
As time passed, Hal became hungry. The taste of bread, eaten alone, becomes speedily monotonous, and the taste of water does not relieve it; nevertheless, Hal munched the bread, and drank the water, and wished for more.
The day dragged by; and late in the afternoon the keeper came again, with another hunk of bread and another pitcher of water. “Listen a moment,” said Hal, as the man was turning away.
“I got nothin' to say to you,” said the other.
“I have something to say to you,” pleaded Hal. “I have read in a book—I forget where, but it was written by some doctor—that white bread does not contain the elements necessary to the sustaining of the human body.”
“Go on!” growled the jailer. “What yer givin' us?”
“I mean,” explained Hal, “a diet of bread and water is not what I'd choose to live on.”
“What would yer choose?”