The revelation was so unexpected that it almost startled the man from Georgia. He pulled out one hand slowly, that a sudden jerk might not lacerate his wrist. Then he pulled out the other, resumed his shirt and hat, picked up the imaginary weight, and shuffled along slowly after his leader.
"What is your name?" asked the gentleman.
"Hunder'd'n One."
They were soon traversing the corridor in the servants' quarter of the hotel, when Baker halted and ventured to say:
"I reckin you'r in the wrong curryder." He was examining the ceiling, the floor, and the numbers on the doors.
"No, this is right," said the gentleman.
Again Baker hobbled along, never releasing his hold on the invisible weight. They halted at No. 13. Said Baker, with a shade of pity in his voice,—
"'Taint right. Wrong curryder. Cell hunder'd'n one's mine."
"Yes, yes; but we'll put you in this one for the present," replied the gentleman, as he opened the door and ushered Baker within. The room was comfortably furnished, and this perplexed Baker more and more.
"Hain't you got it wrong?" he persisted. "Lifer, you know. Hunder'd'n One—lifer—plays off crazy—forty lashes every Monday. Don't you know?"