Part 21 (1/2)

”How did he do it?” I ask, breathlessly

”Jest Irish luck They was finishi+n' the new block, you know Paddy was helpin' lay th' roof When he got good an' ready, he jest goes to work and slides down th' roof Swiped stuff in the ot 'iie?”

”Sure he was Only been in a few et away in stripes? Wouldn't he be recognized as an escaped prisoner?”

”_That_ bother you, Aleck? Why, it's easy Get planted till dark, then hold up th' first bloke you see an' take 'is duds Or you push in th'

back door of a rag joint; plenty of 'eh the roof?”

”Nit, ot to be alive

Many ways to kill a cat, you know Res, tow'l an' soap?”

[25] Note

”You know about it, Wingie?” I ask, in amazement

”Do I? He, he, you little--”

The click of steel sounds warning Wingie disappears

CHAPTER VIII

TO THE GIRL

Direct to Box A 7, Allegheny City, Pa, Novee since I wrote to you, yet it is only a hts down the heels of time,--the only break in the terrible sameness is afforded me by your dear, affectionate letters, and those of Fedya When I return to the cell for the noon, the Chaplain makes his rounds; his practiced hand shoots the letter between the bars, toward the bed or on to the little table in the corner But if the ht, it will flutter to the floor As I reach the cell, the position of the little white object at once apprisesor short With closed eyes I sense its weight, like the war softly to my heart, till I feel myself lifted across the chasm into your presence The bars fade, the walls disappear, and the air groith the aro in the bright July ht The touch of the _velikorussian_ in your eyes and hair conjures up the Volga, our beautiful _bogatir_,[26] and the strains of the _dubinushka_,[27] tre, float about me The ain I read it, slowly, slowly, lest I reach the end too quickly The afternoon hours are hallowed by your touch and your presence, and I a for htarden of our drea, at work in the shop, I pass in anxious wonder whether so low of emotion I think of the Chaplain: perhaps at the veryWhy should strange eyesbut the Chaplain seealleries, distributing the round floor Oh! if he does not come to my cell quickly, he may have no letters left But the next ht,--if there is a letter for ht happen No, it is impossible--my name and prison number, and the cell number marked by the Chaplain across the envelope, all insure the ainst any erly I hasten to the cell

There is nothing on the floor! Perhaps on the bed, on the table I grow feverish with the dread of disappointment

Possibly the letter fell under the bed, or in that dark corner

No, none there,--but it can't be that there is no ain--itthe blankets No, there is no letter!

Thus pass ht I as I shall never get used to this life, nor find an interest in the reality of the moment What will become of me, I don't know I hardly care We are revolutionists, dear: whatever sacrifices the Cause deh the individual perish, humanity will profit in the end