9009 gripped two bars of his cell-door and shook the steel till the rattle went resounding down the corridor in harsh crescendo.
“Here—you up there in 17, be quiet or I’ll throw you into the dungeon!”
The voice of the night guard came up through the shadows; it had the tone of one who is irritated by a common annoyance. 9009 stepped back quickly and threw himself on his bunk. “What’s got into me, anyhow?” he whispered up to his cell-mate, in the bunk above him.
They had arrived by this time to a certain degree of confidence. This had begun one day when, as 9009 was returning, grim and sullen, from his third short term in the dungeon, the little black-faced, spike-haired man had drawn from his blouse two pieces of bread that he had stolen from the dining-room and had handed them to him without a word.
