When these four talked, their speech was different from that of the others. It held purpose. When no guard was near, it was tense and hurried; and when guard, trusty, or ordinary convict approached, it sprang up into spasms of argument or rough laughter. The arguments were too vibrant and the laughter was too loud. In these stolen conferences Nichols, the stony-faced confidence-man, seemed to be leader.
“Here, you up in 17; try that again and I chuck you into the dungeon!”
The voice of the guard came up through the shadow, and 9009 again found himself with hands knotted about bars, while down the corridor came still the echo of rattling steel.
He threw himself back upon his bunk, and stretched himself flat, taking hold of the rods at the sides. “Pard,” he whispered, “I am going nuts.”
“It’s just spells,” came back the pacifying wheeze from above; “just spells; we all have ’em.”
9009 lay on his back, motionless, staring up
