And:
Drink--lurid recollection of being "searched"---clang of iron cell
door, and I grope for and crawl on to the slanting plank. Period of
oblivion--or the soul is away in some other world. Clang of cell
door again, and soul returns in a hurry to take heed of another soul,
belonging to a belated drunk on the plank by my side. Other soul
says:
"Gotta match?"
So we're not in hell yet.
We fumble and light up. They leave us our pipes, tobacco and matches;
presently, one knocks with his pipe on the iron trap of the door and
asks for water, which is brought in a tin pint-pot. Then follow
intervals of smoking, incoherent mutterings that pass for
conversation, borrowings of matches, knockings with the pannikin on
the cell door wicket or trap for more water, matches, and bail; false
and fitful starts into slumber perhaps--or wild attempts at flight on
the part of our souls into that other world that the sober and sane
know nothing of; and, gradually, suddenly it seems, reason (if this
world is reasonable) comes back.
"What's your trouble!"
"Don't know. Bomb outrage, perhaps."
"Drunk?"
"Yes."
"What's yours!"
"Same boat."
But presently he is plainly uneasy (and I am getting that way, too, to
tell the truth), and, after moving about, and walking up and down in
the narrow space as well as we can, he "rings up" another policeman,
who happens to be the fat one who is to be in charge all night.
"Wot's up here?"
"What have I been up to?"
"Killin' a Chinaman.
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