“I’ll—­” he began explosively, proving, by his inability to conclude the remark, that he thought in henids.

“Yes?” I encouraged.  “Just what, pray?”

“I’ll have the Warden here,” he said lamely.

“Do, please.  A most charming gentleman, to be sure.  A shining example of the refining influences that are creeping into our prisons.  Bring him to me at once.  I wish to report you to him.”

“Me?”

“Yes, just precisely you,” I continued.  “You persist, in a rude and boorish manner, in interrupting my conversation with the other guests in this hostelry.”

And Warden Atherton came.  The door was unlocked, and he blustered into my cell.  But oh, I was so safe!  He had done his worst.  I was beyond his power.

“I’ll shut off your grub,” he threatened.

“As you please,” I answered.  “I’m used to it.  I haven’t eaten for ten days, and, do you know, trying to begin to eat again is a confounded nuisance.

“Oh, ho, you’re threatening me, are you?  A hunger strike, eh?”

“Pardon me,” I said, my voice sulky with politeness.  “The proposition was yours, not mine.  Do try and be logical on occasion.  I trust you will believe me when I tell you that your illogic is far more painful for me to endure than all your tortures.”

“Are you going to stop your knuckle-talking?” he demanded.

“No; forgive me for vexing you—­for I feel so strong a compulsion to talk with my knuckles that—­”

“For two cents I’ll put you back in the jacket,” he broke in.

“Do, please.  I dote on the jacket.  I am the jacket baby.  I get fat in the jacket.  Look at that arm.”  I pulled up my sleeve and showed a biceps so attenuated that when I flexed it it had the appearance of a string.  “A real blacksmith’s biceps, eh, Warden?  Cast your eyes on my swelling chest.  Sandow had better look out for his laurels.  And my abdomen—­why, man, I am growing so stout that my case will be a scandal of prison overfeeding.  Watch out, Warden, or you’ll have the taxpayers after you.”

“Are you going to stop knuckle-talk?” he roared.

“No, thanking you for your kind solicitude.  On mature deliberation I have decided that I shall keep on knuckle-talking.”

He stared at me speechlessly for a moment, and then, out of sheer impotency, turned to go.

“One question, please.”

“What is it?” he demanded over his shoulder.

“What are you going to do about it?”

From the choleric exhibition he gave there and then it has been an unceasing wonder with me to this day that he has not long since died of apoplexy.

Hour by hour, after the warden’s discomfited departure, I rapped on and on the tale of my adventures.  Not until that night, when Pie-Face Jones came on duty and proceeded to steal his customary naps, were Morrell and Oppenheimer able to do any talking.